


Simple Gifts

by Claire Gabriel (cgabriel)



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-01
Updated: 2011-06-01
Packaged: 2017-10-19 23:50:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 259,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cgabriel/pseuds/Claire%20Gabriel





	1. The End of the Beginning

# The End of the Beginning

"Captain's log, Stardate 5682.2...." James Kirk hesitated as the log tape continued to run. His mind was still full of his most recent mission, and no doubt some report would have to be made to Starfleet Command. But the fact that matters had been arranged so that the rest of the crew believed that he and Spock had been gone only a few minutes suggested that their part in averting the Holy War was not a matter for the ship's log. He would, he decided, dictate a separate report on the aborted jihad.

He reversed the log tape and began again."Captain's log, Stardate 5682.2. The _Enterprise_ is enroute to Vulcan on a mission of considerable importance to Federation science...." The captain hesitated only a moment, but in that moment his mind wandered once more. Federation grant to the contrary, his ship was once again being used as a taxi service--this time for two obscure scientists whom no one, perhaps not even Spock, had heard of before the orders came. Well, no matter. After a two-week R and R on the Vulcan Federation Preserve, the ship's mission would have taken her to the Centaurus Colonies anyway. "A medical team on a Federation grant is to be taken to a Class M planet in the Alpha Centauri system, formerly codenamed 'Blacktower' but officially named 'Tara' after it was colonized by Earth. Among the twenty-three thousand human colonists on Tara live several thousand Kiso, refugees from a war that almost devastated their planet. There has been intermarriage between the two races, but no living children have been born of these marriages. All research indicates that the Kiso are genetically incompatible with humans, having a copper-based blood similar to that of Vulcans. The medical team consists of a human physician named S.R. Halsted and a Vulcan geneticist named Sutek. Both have been specializing in hybrid genetics and obstetrical procedures on Vulcan, the galactic center of this type of research. Their grant will enable them to continue their research on Tara under the auspices of the Federation. ETA on Tara, one standard month from now. My orders are to personally contact Sutek and Dr. Halsted before going on leave."

Kirk switched off the recorder and sat brooding uncharacteristically throughout the last minutes of his watch. Their arrival on Vulcan had been delayed for over an hour because of an unexpected ion storm, and it was unlikely now that they would get clearance to begin beaming down until the following morning. And even then, he had been ordered to contact the potential passengers before going on leave himself. "Sometimes," he said as McCoy wandered onto the bridge and came to stand near his chair, "I wish somebody else were the captain. Gladhanding future passengers isn't my idea of a good way to start shore leave."

"It shouldn't take long."

"I don't care how long it shouldn't take. I've got better things to do." He did not smile, and McCoy glanced at him.

"Something wrong, Jim?"

Kirk began to speak and then checked himself again, remembering that no one else knew of his and Spock's most recent adventure. "A while back," he said slowly, "a girl made a play for me and I...just wasn't interested." Now a faint grin appeared as he glanced sideways at McCoy. "Told her I had enough green memories. How's that for a classic line? I must be losing my touch."

Relieved, McCoy grinned back. "Was she attractive?"

"Well--" Kirk sighed, but it came out almost a chuckle. "In a way."

McCoy shrugged. "Not your type?"

Kirk eyed him speculatively, his grin fading. When he spoke, his voice held a note of wistfulness."What type is that, Bones?"

"Captain," Uhura said from her station, "I have Vulcan Space Central for you."

"Put it on screen, Lieutenant." As an expressionless Vulcan countenance appeared, Kirk automatically began the formal request to assume orbit. "Vulcan Space Central, this is the U.S.S. _Enterprise_ requesting permission...."

 _Deja vu_. Sudden, unexpected, overpowering. In the few seconds it took him to complete the arrangements, Kirk tried distractedly to figure out why he had the profound impression that all this had happened before, in exactly the same way.

Certainly not recently. It was almost a year since the _Enterprise_ had been ordered to Vulcan, and even then Kirk had not been on the bridge when they assumed orbit. He and his senior officers had been in their quarters, donning their dress uniforms for a diplomatic reception for the delegates to the conference on Babel.

"...Regrets." The impassive space controller went on to say that the _Enterprise_ would be able to assume orbit in a few hours. Kirk resigned himself to the fact that shore leave would not commence until the following morning. "...And from all of Vulcan, welcome."

Again Kirk experienced an overpowering sense of _deja vu_ , this time accompanied by an equally strong sense of foreboding.

"Thank you," he said. And then he remembered.

He began to issue orders in his official voice, resisting the impulse to look toward Spock's station. The watch was over now, and there was considerable activity as relief personnel took over. Spock appeared unperturbed as he spoke briefly with his relief, and his captain dared to hope that James Kirk was the only one who heard a voice from the past: _"I await you...."_

 _Like hell she did_. As he headed for his quarters, he fought a growing sense of anger, frustration, and disappointment. The _Enterprise_ had been on patrol for nearly six standard months with nothing but an occasional brief respite for the crew. He had been anticipating shore leave with his usual enthusiasm. But the memory of T'Pring, outlined against the firey Vulcan sky on the _Enterprise_ 's main viewscreen, had somehow turned his anticipation to bitter resentment.

 _"I make my choice--this one!"_

So much, he thought, for a life. His or Spock's.

And much more recently, another woman--one with whom he had once believed himself in love--had taken over his body. At the time, his primary concern had been his quest for credibility in an incredible situation. But now--now the depth of his own bitterness made the memories of T'Pring and Janice Lester greener than those of Edith Keeler.He was, he decided wryly, turning into a misogynist.

  
"That'll be the day."

Jim Kirk looked up from his soup and grinned. In one mood, he craved Spock's logical and often gently perceptive reactions to his own extremes of temperament. But in another, there was nobody quite like Bones.

"That's better." McCoy, whose appetite had not been affected by the captain's mood, pushed away his empty bowl and regarded his friend thoughtfully for a moment. "You got something else on your mind?"

"Time. I'm worried about Spock. It's been a year since--T'Pring. I wonder how much time he has left."

"Enough." The response was automatic, a fact learned well and then put aside until needed. But then McCoy frowned slightly. "Go on. Eat your dinner."

"What do you mean--enough?"

"Eat. Conversation on serious topics is bad for the digestion."

"Bones."

"All right." McCoy sighed. "The information in my possession, Captain, was in a top secret communique from Starfleet Command that all chief medical officers on all Starfleet vessels received about ten days ago. To be shared only with the ship's captain, and at the CMO's discretion. Now eat your soup. Spock isn't in any danger. We can talk about it later."

Kirk laid his spoon aside. "Explain."

"Jim--"

"Do I have to make it an order?" Belatedly, Kirk glanced around the officer's mess. But he and McCoy had arrived late, and they were alone. "There is something about this that's getting to you, isn't there?"

"I think," McCoy said grimly, "that somebody must have died." He too had stopped eating when Kirk began to press him, and now he struck the table with his fist. "God, what a waste! If all of us had been informed from the beginning --"

"What makes you think somebody died?"

"It was just a memo, but it was obviously written by a Vulcan. I'm guessing that it was Silard, the CMO on the _New Intrepid_. And no Vulcan is going to write a memo on that subject unless something pretty awful happened."

"Go on."

"Well, it was brief, all very scientific and objective. The cause, the symptoms. You remember. We saw them. I guess Spock was a fairly representative case. There wasn't much in the memo that you and I don't already know. Except that somebody's figured out that when a Vulcan is in Starfleet or otherwise separated from his home environment, it'll happen to him about once every six point something something standard years. That's the average. The range is four to eight years, and once the individual cycle is established, it's 99 something something percent predictable."

"Where'd they get their data?"

McCoy smiled grimly. "Maybe they did a survey?"

"Very funny."

"Telepathic survey?"

"Bones --"

"I'm not being funny. I'm playing guessing games. Don't ever tell the doctor anything. Just send him a goddamn memo." McCoy sighed. "I'm serious, Jim. Can you see a bunch of Vulcans sitting around discussing how often they get that way? But they aren't about to quote means and medians and ranges without data either."

"Standard deviation?"

"You bet. Inside job, and very thorough. But no signature."

"What was the sample size?"

"Four-thirty-six. And that's no sample. That's every Vulcan in Starfleet, including Spock."

"Statistics," Kirk said heavily, "won't keep him alive."

"Your soup is cold."

Kirk pushed the soup away and began on his main course. In spite of his questions, he felt reassured. At least someone was attempting to deal with the problem. And if a Vulcan was in charge of disseminating information, chances were good that the job would be done right. Vulcans were notoriously adept at circumventing bureaucracy.

"So," McCoy went on, "Spock has at least three years to make other arrangements--whatever they do when the thing falls through. Maybe he'll take care of it this leave. He's still planning to take leave, isn't he?" Kirk nodded absently. "Jim, if this still bothers you, why don't you ask him about it? I don't think he'd take offense if it came from you."

In spite of himself, Kirk grinned. "Offense, Doctor, is a human--"

"Forget it." They both chuckled. But then McCoy turned thoughtful again. "We haven't seen much of that lately."

"No. Not since--" But Spock's journey into his own past was also something that McCoy did not know about. "Not lately. But he's a bit put out with me right now. I don't think this is the time to come around asking personal questions."

"Put out? Why?"

In memory, Kirk again experienced the horror he had felt when Spock was thrown from the landrover as boiling lava threatened to overtake it.

"He thinks I made a crucial decision for the wrong reason. But I think we can work it out."

  
The _Enterprise_ assumed standard orbit at 1930 hours that "evening" by the ship's chronometer, which also happened to be the middle of the night in ShiKahr. Resigned to the fact that the beginning of shore leave would indeed be put off for several hours, Kirk passed the early part of the evening playing three-dimensional chess with his first officer.

The recreation room was almost deserted, for most of the crew had turned in early in anticipation of being allowed to go planetside at 0800.

"It seems odd," Kirk said as Spock contemplated his next move, "that Sutek is on the staff at the outworlders' hospital while Dr. Halsted is at the Science Academy Medical Center. Seems like it should be the other way around, doesn't it?"

"Sutek's area of specialization is hybrid genetics," Spock answered without looking up. "Salk Memorial has an excellent pediatrics department. It is not unusual for the mothers of Vulcan/human hybrids to take their children there for treatment." His voice was expressionless, but Kirk sensed disapproval in it. "I know nothing about Dr. Halsted, but it is rather unusual for an outworlder to be on the staff at the Academy."

"Well, he's only twenty-five, and he's already got a Federation grant. Maybe he's some kind of a genius. Even with hypno-instruction, most human physicians are still doing a residency at that age."

"If you will consult the information provided by Starfleet Command, Captain," Spock remarked mildly, "you will find that Dr. Halsted is still 'doing a residency', but was chosen because the RFP specified that one member of the team be human. Humans specializing in hybrid obstetrics are almost nonexistent."

"Most of the population on Blacktower is human."

"Indeed. A most logical specification."

They played in silence for a while. Then Kirk, aware that Spock was relaxed, asked casually, "By the way, are you still mad at me for saving your life?"

Predictably, one eyebrow rose. "Mad, Captain?"

"You know what I mean." Kirk moved a piece carefully.

Spock studied the triboard thoughtfully before answering, and Kirk again sensed that his friend was not quite as ready to question emotional motivations as he had been before returning to his past to save his own life. But he also knew that Spock felt duty-bound to argue this case, and he knew why. Even though Spock had been an essential member of the team, Kirk's immediate insistence on stopping the landrover had not been motivated by his concern for the safety of an alien artifact. And Spock knew it.

"Your action threatened the success of the mission," the first officer said slowly. "Returning the soul of Alar to the Skorr should have been your only concern." He moved a pawn from first to second level without looking up.

"Were any other members of the team skilled in null-g combat?" Kirk looked up innocently and moved at the same time. "Check."

Almost as though he had anticipated the move, Spock made one of his own. "When you halted the landrover, Captain, you could not have foreseen that we would be required to immobilize the Skorr defector in null-g."

"I could very well foresee, Mr. Spock, that I would most certainly need the assistance of someone other than a champion lock-picker and an amazon with a good sense of direction." Looking straight at his friend, Kirk did not miss the faint flicker of amusement in the depths of Spock's eyes.

"The saurian could have assisted you in--"

"I didn't see him trying."

"Post hoc rationalizations cannot change the facts, Jim." Spock's voice was gentle, almost sad, as he dropped his gaze to the game. "Check."

"If you weren't essential to the mission, why were you chosen for it?" Kirk started to move, hesitated, frowned, looked up, and grinned. "Looks like a stalemate." Spock frowned faintly, eyebrow again on the rise. "Tell you what," Kirk went on easily. "Next time I'm tempted to save your life, I'll take a few moments to calculate how essential you are to the mission before I do anything rash. On one condition." Spock had looked up, directly at him. "You do the same for me."

For a moment, their gaze held. And then Spock looked away.

"Good night, Mr. Spock," Kirk said gently, rising. "Sleep well."

But he was not pleased with himself, and even before he reached his quarters he knew why. For the first time that he could remember, he had used Spock's friendship to get the last word.

Strange. If it were Bones, he wouldn't have thought twice about that aspect of it. Nor would McCoy, in the reverse situation. But with Spock....Before he fell asleep, he had vowed that this first time would also be the last.

  
Having been informed by vidphone that Dr. Halsted had taken two hours off and could not be reached, Jim Kirk set out for the hospital for offworlders, Salk Memorial, at about 0830 ship's time the following day. It was, he knew, the middle of the afternoon in ShiKahr. A minutely calibrated twenty-six-hour chronometer on the control panel of the rented groundcar showed the time to be 14.37 in the time zone he was in, 16.02 in the next, and on around the planet for some fifty different zones, separated from one another by irregular, seemingly patternless time differentials. Leaving the computations to Vulcan minds, Kirk activated the groundcar's programming, adjusted the Earth-made AIRKOOL, silently thanked heaven for Earth-Vulcan trade, and settled back for his ride. Outside it was mid-winter--about eight-five degrees Fahrenheit in the shade.

As he had expected, Salk Memorial was a tall, narrow building among other tall, narrow buildings in the offworld section of ShiKahr. The architects had been a human/Rigillian team. Both races had a continuous mating drive and an unconscious mind to go with it; by contrast, Vulcan architecture was distinguished by the rarity of spires and the relative infrequency of circular domes. Having realized this fact, the captain of the _Enterprise_ commenced to speculate on whether Vulcans possessed an unconscious mind, and promptly got lost.

The groundcar had been programmed for Salk Memorial, but not for the main entrance. Kirk found himself in a congested parking area, and realized that he had chanced to arrive at the hospital's emergency entrance at a time when a number of patients were being admitted all at once. Most of them were youngsters, and all of them were burned, some quite severely.

He never learned what sort of accident had caused this suffering. But it had apparently involved a group of offworld children between the ages of ten and fourteen. Hesitating, he saw human children, an Andorian boy, a rainbow-striped amphibian, and a triped humanoid species he did not recognize--all miniature representatives of their own races, all in pain. And--a Vulcan child?

There were not enough diagnostic beds sunbursting from the center of the huge room to accommodate all of the patients immediately. Some of the stretchers had been momentarily allowed to remain on the intake conveyer. Immediately on Kirk's right as he hesitated at the entrance, looking in, was a Vulcan boy who appeared to be in his early teens, apparently unconscious. His arm and chest were badly burned, although he had obviously been given temporary first aid.

 _Poor kid_. Kirk stepped closer, being careful not to touch the child. Fine-boned, thin, straight black hair. The eyelids fluttered, and it occurred to Kirk that the boy might not be unconscious.

If only he had listened more carefully after he and McCoy had returned from the planet Neural. But he had been upset and depressed about Tyre and his people, and the fact that Spock was strong and whole again had been enough for him. Now all he could remember McCoy saying was: "M'Benga says Spock wasn't unconscious except right at first. They only appear to be unconscious."

"Don't be afraid," Kirk said softly to the boy on the litter, a boy who looked very much as Spock might have looked at the same age. "You're in a hospital. There are people here who can help you."

The gray-green eyelids flickered once more, and Kirk was positive that the boy had heard him. He could see the thin body relax a little.

"Captain," a voice behind Kirk asked, "are you a relative?" Young. Human. Male. White-suited. Confident. And in his hand, an airhypo.

"No. I just--" An airhypo? "Uh--Doctor, are you going to give this boy a painkiller now?"

Suspicion stared back at him. What's it to ya? "He's in pain, isn't he?"

"Look, I think he's in a trance." The medic stared. "A healing trance. Vulcans can heal themselves, but they have to be conscious."

"You don't say. Stand aside, please."

"Now wait a minute, mister--"

"I can have you thrown out of here, you know. Are you a relative or aren't you?"

"Take a look at the kid, will you?" Kirk said as quietly as he could. "He's trying to--"

"Are you a physician, Captain?"

"Tommy," said a female voice at Kirk's elbow, "take a look at the patient like the man says, okay?" The emphasis was slight, though obvious. The tone was firm, but there was a weary familiarity in it, almost as though the speaker had said the same thing more than once.

Still infuriated, Kirk glanced over his shoulder. Mid-twenties. Blue eyes, very nearly on a level with his. Brown hair so clean that the sunlight caught in it across the crown....

"Hell, Sarah--go home, will you?" The young medic was obviously at the end of his patience, but his tone was more affectionate than insulting. "Salk isn't your territory anymore."

"I have business upstairs." But Sarah's mind was obviously no longer on her colleague. As she moved past Kirk toward the patient, he saw that she was dressed in a white, short-sleeved tunic, belted with a tie at the waist, and with some sort of emblem on the right side of the chest. Her hair was drawn back, though not severely, to reveal rounded, human ears, and then wound at the neck in a manner that was both neat and attractive.

She bent over the child, not touching him. "Simon," she said softly, and then added something in another language that sounded like Vulcan. "All will be well," she finished in English.

"You know this kid?" Tommy asked. He was already glancing around the room, determining where he might be needed. "Look, sweetheart, this one's all yours if you want it. Trances and all that stuff--it's a little out of my line. I mean, as long as you're right here--"

"Go on," the girl answered, not turning. "He's part of T'Loreth's pilot group. I'll stay with him for a little while. He knows me."

"You have an appointment upstairs?"

"No. I'm just dropping in."

"Okay. Thanks." The young man glanced at Kirk and made a sketchy salute. "So long, Admiral."

When he had gone, Sarah moved away from the patient, perched on the conveyer near his head, and gazed thoughtfully at Kirk. "How did you know Simon was in a healing trance?"

"I--guessed. I've never actually seen it, but my first officer is a Vulcan." Kirk hesitated. "Simon isn't a Vulcan name. Almost sounds like a compromise."

"His father is human. Simon has been living on Earth. His mother died when he was born."

"She wasn't--betrothed to a Vulcan as a child?"

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "You _are_ well informed."

"Too well, maybe." Kirk smiled, and Sarah smiled back, almost involuntarily. But he was used to that.

 _Beautiful_ , he thought. _Who's a misogynist_?

And so he explained about his leave, and asked her to join him for dinner at the Officers' Club on the Federation Preserve. "To talk about Vulcans, of course," he finished, still smiling.

"Of course." The blue eyes met his calmly, but with a glint of amusement. "No," she said. "Thank you."

Kirk stared. "You're...busy?"

"No, Captain," she said gently. "I'm not."

Their gaze held for a moment, and it crossed his mind that the only other person he had ever met who could skewer a guy with no malice at all was his first officer.

The boy on the litter stirred and opened his eyes. "I can't do it," he said, his voice heavy with un-Vulcan despair. He stared helplessly at Kirk. "I haven't been back here long enough to learn how to do it right. Are you a doctor?"

The hopelessness on that thin Vulcan face touched Kirk deeply. Forgetting Sarah for the moment, he put his hand on the child's arm. "You'll learn. Don't give up."

"I can't do anything right," the child said flatly.

"You expect too much of yourself." Did they all have to suffer so for not being Vulcan enough? "You were doing just fine a few minutes ago. Too many people talking around here, that's all."

The boy stared at him, wanting to believe. "Are you sure you're not a doctor?"

Kirk shook his head. "Your doctor's right here," he said gently.

"Where?"

"Simon--" Sarah began.

The youngster started violently, eyebrows askew, and turned his head to look at Sarah as she moved into his line of vision from where she had been sitting on the conveyer. The kid looked, Kirk thought, as though somebody had jumped out of the closet at him.

"Doctor?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." For the first time, she looked less than confident. In fact, she looked baffled. "Captain--"

Kirk nodded. "I'm going. I'm looking for a research scientist on staff here. Sutek. He's a Vulcan. Do you know where I can find him?"

"Sutek?" For a moment her attention focused on Kirk again. But Simon stirred restlessly, obviously in pain, and the moment passed. She gave Kirk precise instructions for getting to Sutek's lab, and then hesitated. "Thank you for trying to help." Her eyes moved briefly to Simon and then back. "I think you might have."

A quarter of an hour later Kirk left Salk Memorial, the first half of his assignment completed. Sutek, although much younger, reminded Kirk of Spock's father--polite, skilled in Vulcan-human protocol, but essentially unreachable. Well, one down, one to go. Then the hell with the pair of them.

  
After the captain of the _Enterprise_ left his office, Sutek immediately returned to his work--at the moment, a thorough perusal of a journal article dealing with his area of specialization. A stoic, sturdily built Vulcan in early adulthood, he was bonded but unmarried, and his work was his life. And so he quickly became absorbed in the words that passed across his viewer--so absorbed that when a second visitor came to the open door about a meter behind his right shoulder, he did not hear her light step on the soft acousticarpet of the passageway.

Sutek had been reading when Jim Kirk appeared at the same open doorway earlier. But then he had looked around immediately, although the captain's footsteps had made no more sound than those of the second visitor. Now oblivious, he remained absorbed.

"Sutek?"

The Vulcan started violently and then turned, his face momentarily a study in angled planes. "Ah--" It was almost a sigh. "Sarah."

"What is it that I do--or don't do?" Familiar with the office, she crossed to a chair and sat down, leaning forward intently. "That's the second time in an hour that this has happened, and it's happened before, but not so noticeably. What is it?"

Now in complete control, Sutek studied her gravely. "I can only speculate. I should prefer not to. Let us say that I did not hear you approach." He raised his eyebrows slightly. "Nor did I expect to see you here this afternoon."

"I had some free time, and I wanted to talk to you. About Tara. I remembered that the tenth and the twentieth are your reading days."

"It is perhaps unfortunate that you did not remain at the Science Academy this afternoon, or did not arrive here earlier. The captain of the starship that will convey us to Tara visited me between 14.57 and 14.62. I believe that he is even now enroute to visit you at the Academy in order to...hope that you have a pleasant trip."

"Captain? Gold shirt, fair, brown hair, nice smile, about your height?"

"Indeed."

"Well." Sarah smiled, amused. "What do you know."

"I know only what I have told you, Sarah," Sutek replied expressionlessly. "May I inquire as to the purpose of your visit?"

"Of course. But may I use your vidphone for a moment first? If the captain wants to see me, I'd better let T'Loreth know when I'll be back."

In a few seconds there appeared on the small screen of Sutek's vidphone the head and shoulders of a strikingly attractive Vulcan woman who might have been anywhere between forty and ninety. She too wore a short-sleeved white tunic with an emblem on the chest. "Sarah," she said calmly in the Vulcan manner of vidphone greeting to a caller to whom the recipient is well known. Then she continued in a manner that a human observer might have identified as friendly interest. "Were you able to locate Sutek?"

"He's right here. I'm in his office." Sarah went on to explain about the starship captain. ""Please tell him I'll be back about--" She consulted Sutek's chronometer. "About 15.75."

"About?" One of T'Loreth's eyebrows rose slightly, as did one of Sutek's.

"Yes, about," Sarah answered affectionately. "The captain is human. I shall arrive in your office between 15.73 and 15.77, but if you told him that, he wouldn't believe you."

T'Loreth gave a barely perceptible shrug. If she were human, she would undoubtedly have raised her eyes skyward and sighed. "As you wish." The tiny screen went blank, but Sarah knew that there was no discourtesy in that abrupt sign-off. T'Loreth was a Vulcan who had no more to say. Consequently, no more would be said.

"Now." Sarah faced her companion, who had remained seated at his desk. "Have you read the Federation social ethics monograph on the Tara colony?"

"Indeed."

"We're going to be working with two races," she went on almost hesitantly. "One of them--my race--has practiced legal abortion for three centuries, and the other had practiced infanticide for ten--until the human colonists 'civilized' them. I've lived and worked with your people for almost three years. I know that no Vulcan considers abortion ethical under any circumstances, but on Tara it seems to be the basis for a compromise in social ethics." Sarah paused, smiling almost apologetically. "There's an English idiom: 'Don't rock the boat.' It means--"

"I have encountered this idiom."

"Then you understand me when I ask if you intend to try to rock the boat on Tara."

The Vulcan did not respond immediately. Then he asked quietly, "Do you?"

"Why do you ask? You don't usually answer a question with a question."

"You have used the word 'civilized' with what humans call irony."

"Maybe. But you still haven't answered my question."

"No, Sarah, I do not intend to 'rock the boat.'" Sarah stared, obviously taken aback. "Do you?" Sutek repeated.

"No."

"Then we are of one mind in this matter."

After a moment Sarah said slowly, "I'm s--I regret that I misjudged you, my friend. A human with your convictions would probably have gone on this assignment with the intention of converting the whole colony."

"Vulcans do not expect other worlds to live by the standards of ours."

"Yes. I should know that by now. But mine is a race of missionaries." Sarah rose, hesitated, made her decision, and held out her hand. They shook hands firmly, and then she raised hers in the Vulcan salute even as he did. "Live long and prosper, Sutek. I think our assignment will go well."

  
Sarah arrived at the Vulcan Science Academy at precisely 15.28, for her talk with Sutek had taken far less time than she had anticipated. But she saw no point in keeping T'Loreth and the captain waiting. Her superior was a busy department head, and the sooner the captain could be about his business, the sooner he could find another dinner companion. If that was what he was looking for.

She had expected the captain to be surprised to see her again. But when he was not, she assumed that T'Loreth had explained where and with whom Dr. Halsted was, and that Kirk had drawn his own conclusions about who "Simon's doctor" was. He appeared businesslike, introducing himself, wishing her a pleasant journey on his ship, and declaring himself to be at her service should she require information or assistance before their departure. "The doctor here knows where to reach me," he finished, and smiled for the first time since Sarah had entered the office.

"Through the Officers' Club, no doubt," Sarah murmured. "It's on the Preserve, isn't it?"

Facing away from T'Loreth and toward Sarah, Kirk did not even blink, and his smile did not waver. "You have an excellent memory, Doctor." There was a moment's silence, and then he went on smoothly: "The dining room at the club is excellent too. Would you care to join me for dinner this evening?" Then, to Sarah's combined exasperation and delight, he placed his hands behind his back, still grinning, and mouthed silently _No hands_.

Trying to keep a straight face for T'Loreth, who was watching her, Sarah began faintly, "Well, I--"

"You're not...busy, are you?"

"No," she answered, permitting herself a smile that she hoped would alleviate the need to laugh. "I--" The man was impossible. So damnably pleased with himself, and yet she could not be angry. "I'll be off duty after 1800. If you want to call me here about then--"

"Fine. I'll do that." Hands still behind his back, he turned to T'Loreth and bowed slightly. "It's been a pleasure, ma'am. Thank you for your time."

After he had gone, Sarah sank into a chair, staring helplessly at T'Loreth. "Now why did I do that?"

T'Loreth's eyebrows rose. "I do not understand what it is you have done. You have neither accepted nor rejected the captain's invitation."

"Oh. Well, that's a stall. Gives me time to think it over. He understands that. But I shouldn't have encouraged him."

"Then why did you?" There was the barest trace of affectionate amusement in T'Loreth's eyes.

"I like him." In memory, Sarah saw Jim Kirk leaning over Simon, his hand on the child's arm: _You expect too much of yourself._ "Which is odd. I usually don't care for his type."

"His--?"

"Sorry. Translation: I find Captain Hornblower sexually attractive for several reasons. But I'm afraid that's...about all he's interested in."

"Afraid?" T'Loreth echoed gently.

After a moment, Sarah said softly, "You are very un-Vulcan at times." When T'Loreth did not answer, she went on slowly, "If I ever met a man who meant what he says...." She sighed . "Now where would I find a man like that?"

"On Vulcan, perhaps."

"Oh, no." She shook her head. "I'd never want to get emotionally involved with a Vulcan, T'Loreth. I don't want to speak in a way that might offend you, but --"

"We have discussed Vulcan biological imperatives," T'Loreth said expressionlessly. "Were I unable to converse with you on the subject, I would soon be...out of a job?"

Sarah shook her head again. "I can't say I'd find the prospect appealing, but that's not what I meant. It's--well--they come here, you know, these human women who marry Vulcans, and we implant their genetic synthesizers, and deliver their babies, and keep all our statistics and congratulate ourselves on our success rate. And everything's just fine. Except that not one of them is happy. Either they're starved for emotional contact or they don't want it because they can't deal with it. I've gotten so I can spot which they are in less than five minutes. In all your years in this field, have you ever met a human woman married to a Vulcan who was happy?"

"One."

"Happy?"

"Indeed."

"Was she a patient here?"

"A patient, yes. But she and I were--what you would call friends. We have not spoken together often in recent years. The courses of our lives have diverged."

"One," Sarah repeated sadly. "Well, do I remind you of her?"

"No, Sarah. You do not."

"Anyway, I think I'm telepathically unqualified for bonding." Abruptly: "Am I psi-null?"

T'Loreth hesitated. "I should prefer not to speculate."

"That's what Sutek said this afternoon right after I scared him out of his wits. Vulcans don't hear me coming, do they?"

"It is not an auditory--"

"Oh, I know that. You know what I mean."

"Indeed." T'Loreth frowned slightly.

"Well, explain it to me, then."

"It would be well," T'Loreth said slowly, "if you were to cultivate the habit of speaking as you approach a Vulcan when you are not in his or her visual field. Although most of us require physical contact for effective telepathic communication, we also receive faint psionic transmissions at the approach of even another Vulcan. One might liken it to a stirring of the air. With members of other races unskilled in shielding their minds, the transmissions are more noticeable, although unintelligible. At the approach of a human, one expects to experience considerable 'stirring of the air.' At your approach, Sarah, there is nothing."

"Well," Sarah said faintly, "that's good to know. I guess."

"It is neither good nor bad. It is simply a fact."

"Yes, of course." Sarah gazed thoughtfully at her superior. "You know, you're the only one here I can talk to like this. Not just here on Vulcan. Anywhere. You always make me feel sort of--unjumbled."

T'Loreth inclined her head slightly. "I accept your gift of self."

"The obligation is mine," Sarah answered, marveling at how easily the words came. Once, as a new resident on an alien planet, she had been uncomfortable with the Vulcan equivalent of "Thank you," and even more so with the proper response. Now even this was part of her life, almost part of her self. She rose, smiling now. "I feel so unjumbled I might even have dinner with Hornblower. Or pretty soon I'll get to the point where I get along better with Vulcans than I do with humans. We couldn't have that, now could we."  


  


Shadows grew in the corners of the dining room and crept up the walls as the sun faded and dropped below the garden wall, leaving the sky the color of the fruit Earthmen call a plum. As the meal neared its end, Spock was aware that I-Chaya had come to the window and peered in, silent but expectant. In all the years that the first I-Chaya had lived in the garden, neither of Spock's parents had ever been able to break him of the habit of prowling under the dining room window like an impatient child awaiting a friend. His successor had been the family pet since Spock was seven, and was now in early middle age and tall enough to press his nose against the window and stare balefully at those within, even as the first I-Chaya had often done. Knowing the sehlat was there even though he himself was not facing the window, Spock prepared his mind to transmit the brief command that I-Chaya was capable of perceiving even without physical contact. But Sarek, who faced the window, gazed expressionlessly over his son's shoulder until the sehlat, snuffling but not vocalizing, removed himself from the window.

Shortly, the meal was over. Father and son, facing one another across the table, continued the conversation they had begun earlier, each nursing a mild liqueur synthesized for the sole purpose of aiding the Vulcan digestive process without affecting the nervous system. Amanda, whose nervous system was unable to tolerate the drink, sat with her elbows resting lightly on the table and her eyes cast down, sipping a cup of coffee that would have rendered her husband semi-comatose and her son profoundly disoriented after the first swallow.

Noting the downcast eyes, Spock absently calculated how long his mother would be able to maintain her air of objectivity, even as he admired her for trying.

"The matter is settled, then," Sarek said quietly--although it seemed to Spock that there was a note of doubt in his father's voice. The statement had an interrogative quality about it although Sarek had not used the interrogative form of the Vulcan verb.

"It shall be as it has always been, Father." It was a ritual idiom, one that Spock had used only once before in his life. That had been on the day they had given him the flatfax--the likeness of a grave little girl that he had carried for decades only to burn it, his face expressionless as he watched the edges curl to ashes. This time, there would be no fax, for T'Marla had been teaching Vulcan at the Federation Multiversity in the Centaurus Colonies since before Selvor died with the _Intrepid,_ and Selvor's picture of the child T'Marla had been lost as well.

At Spock's words, Amanda sighed and Sarek's eyebrows rose. Their son was immediately aware that the two were reacting to two entirely different aspects of his answer. There was nothing new in that; it had been going on all his life. Amanda's sigh had been in response to his consent to the bonding with a young woman he had never met. Sarek's raised eyebrows had emphasized the fact that Spock had given a ritual answer to a statement made in conversation.

Resigned, Spock mentally tabled his mother's sigh, hoped that she would permit the matter to remain tabled until they were alone together, and addressed himself to first things first.

"I regret that I responded inappropriately," he began. Then, realizing that he was speaking English, he went on in Vulcan: "I am gratified that you have undertaken to implement my wishes in this matter." The Vulcan _my wishes_ echoed briefly in his mind. In English, the literal translation would have been _the obligations of this person_. "When our mission to the Tara colony is complete, the _Enterprise_ will proceed on course for Alpha Centauri. The probability that the ship will be permitted to divert briefly is high--94.8 percent." He spoke carefully now, making sure to use the Vulcan name for Alpha Centauri.

"Good." Sarek's gaze lingered on his son's, and Spock wondered why he felt vaguely uneasy. It was all settled now--or almost all settled. Soon he would again be bonded, and his future assured. Unless....

 _"Kal-i-fee!"_

Before he could control the movement, Spock shifted his gaze away from his father's. In the silence that followed, he controlled his emotional reaction to the memory, banished a suddenly remembered line from a twentieth century Terran poet ( _Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice_ ), and calculated the low probability that his world would end in the same way twice. No matter. The next time, no male who meant anything to him would be within one light year. He would see to it personally. Beyond that, he would deal with life as it came.

And yet....

Somewhere in the depths of his being, a voice cried out: _This time, I want to do the choosing._

His father was leaving the room, going directly outside. At the garden door, Sarek paused, and his eyes met his wife's briefly. Some sort of reassurance--Spock was sure of it. Amanda smiled a little and nodded once, and Sarek moved out into the garden, leaving the door open although the heat of the day had not fully dissipated. Spock recognized that an invitation had been extended to him, but knew also that his father would take no offense if he did not accept it. Had Sarek wanted Spock to join him for a specific reason, he would have stated his preference, and probably his reason as well. Spock knew that he would accept that unspoken invitation once he had given his mother a chance to speak her mind.

All his life he had been taught to control his emotions, but also to mitigate their destructive effects by being totally aware of their existence. In this last he had not always succeeded; denial had often been much easier than control. But now he did not deny. The joy of being no longer estranged from his father made this brief time together during his leave too precious to be wasted. For eighteen years it had been as though he had no father, and the fact that this tragic situation had been his own doing made the renewal of his relationship with Sarek all the more significant to him.

For a moment, his disciplined mind relaxed, and drifted into the past.

  
Once, on the planet Excalbia, he had remarked that the father-image had much meaning for Vulcans. Later he had regretted that remark, for he knew that it had probably been the cause of one more human misapprehension about Vulcans. To humans, a father-image was an image of what a father should be. From watching the Tri-D while he was at Starfleet Academy, he had gleaned that, at least among civilized Terrans, fathering had something to do with going fishing early in the morning. The Vulcan part of him was unable to grasp the connection, and his humanity lacked the experiential data to make the necessary leap of faith. By analogy, he theorized that humans were probably unable to grasp the fact that the Vulcan father-image had nothing to do with fishing, or even with psychic fathering as humans understood it. The Vulcan father-image was a culture-image--the living, breathing epitome of what a Vulcan should be. The most binding obligation of a Vulcan parent, male or female, was to preserve the culture-image at all costs.

The cost to Sarek had been prohibitive.

At the age of seven, his only son had made his life decision--to live as a Vulcan. Yet at the age of eighteen that same son had behaved as only a human adolescent could behave, had left for Starfleet Academy while his father was offworld, and had made no attempt to explain, logically or otherwise, why he was going. Sometimes, during those first years at the Academy, Spock had permitted himself to imagine Sarek's feelings when, on his return to Vulcan he found his son gone, and without explanation. But the emotional anguish these excursions into empathy had caused him served no constructive purpose, and so he had taught himself to abandon them. He knew that, to Sarek, that experience had been equivalent to that of a human father who discovers his only son an apparent suicide. Given the evidence, Sarek could only conclude that Spock had repudiated his life decision.

Having realized this, Spock had resigned himself to the fact that he and his father would be isolated from one another indefinitely--not by Sarek's choice or his own, but because in placing an almost unbearable emotional burden on his father, he had made it impossible for Sarek to be certain that he could maintain the Vulcan culture-image in Spock's presence.

"You do understand that he's not angry with you," Amanda had pleaded on the occasion of Spock's most recent home leave, shortly before Jim Kirk took over the _Enterprise_ from Christopher Pike.

"Yes, Mother--I understand." But Spock had thought: _It is you who do not understand_ , and tried to control the pain of not one but two parents' suffering because he had once behaved like the half human adolescent he was.

"He wants to believe me. Oh, Spock--I've told him over and over that you haven't repudiated your decision, and he wants so much to believe it. But he can't trust himself to see for himself."

 _He can't trust himself._

Yes, Spock had understood. Even when Sarek had turned away from him at that nightmarish moment of their first meeting in eighteen years, he had understood. _"I should prefer another guide."_ Kirk and McCoy had seen only rejection in that encounter, but Spock had seen the truth: his Vulcan parent unable to permit contact for fear the emotional pressures of that contact would cause him to default on his parental obligation. And his human parent, eyes downcast, silently rejoicing that fate had seen fit to bring father and son face to face at last--permitting Sarek to see for himself that his son was, if anything, more Vulcan than ever. She alone had understood the wrenching inner conflict that had caused Spock to leave Vulcan, although she had never condoned the manner of his leaving. Perhaps she alone understood what it had cost him to greet his father without a flicker of emotion. But she had also understood, Spock knew, what that emotionless Vulcan greeting had meant to Sarek.

Later, in the engine room, Spock had also understood the true meaning of Sarek's "I gave Spock his first lesson in computers." It was an acknowledgment of kinship so long denied, and a statement of hope: perhaps it would be all right after all. Perhaps they could begin again to be father and son without fear that the Vulcan father-image could not be maintained.

But if the cost of their estrangement had been prohibitive emotionally for Sarek, the hope of their reunion had exacted an even greater price. For Spock knew that there was a high probability that the tension of that meeting aboard the _Enterprise_ had almost cost Sarek his life.

The Vulcan part of Spock saw no irony in the fact that he had finally proved himself Vulcan to his father by being ready to let Sarek die. The values inherent in that decision were as obvious to Sarek as they were to Spock, though Kirk, McCoy, and even Amanda had remained unable to see them. Later, when Amanda had repeated in Spock's and Sarek's presence her accusation that Spock's action (or lack of it) had been "not human," Sarek had answered serenely, "Indeed." And there the matter had ended.

But Spock's humanity--the part of him that his mother had believed she failed to reach--still occasionally surfaced in the emotional equivalent of a cold sweat, remembering what might have been had his captain not taken matters into his own hands.

  
He realized that his mother was speaking to him, and that only a moment had passed since his father had left the dining room.

"It's silly," she was saying softly. "He's in perfect health now, but sometimes when I see him go off alone like that--" And Spock began to understand the silent message of reassurance that Sarek had sent her.

The words _But your worry is illogical_ came to his lips. But he did not speak them aloud, knowing that they would serve no purpose. Then he frowned slightly. As recently as a year ago, he would have said them anyway. Turning that thought in his mind, he was completely unprepared for his mother's next words, spoken with quiet intensity.

"Spock, argue with him. It's your life that's being taken out of your hands. When you were seven, I accepted it because all Vulcan children are bonded. But you're an adult now."

"Mother," he said gently, "what you suggest is not possible."

"But it is!" She gazed at him in silent pleading, and he gazed back, adamant. "You were relieved that T'Marla isn't on Vulcan now." No reaction. "Your father isn't unreasonable. Tell him how you feel."

"This has nothing to do with Sarek's ability to reason," Spock answered mildly. "It is the Vulcan way."

"Must it always come to that?" They were silent for a moment, listening to the sounds of the night's beginning that drifted in through the open door. Then Amanda went on quietly: "I get the feeling that you and I have nothing to say to each other anymore, and that frightens me." Her voice wavered on the last words, and then she went on more steadily, her eyes fixed on the coffee cup she still held. "Are you angry with me?"

"Angry? No. Why should I be?"

She looked up, utterly disbelieving. "The last time we met, I struck you in the face. Have you forgotten?"

"No." Only a few moments ago, his humanity had been clamoring to be heard, pleading for a choice. But now he could not find that humanity; there seemed to be nothing in his nature that could help him understand how anyone could stay angry for a year. And yet he knew that in his mother's human frame of reference, the idea was not at all bizarre. "Mother--" He hesitated, and then spoke with more evident tenderness than he had intended. "Neither of us can change our natures. We are what we are."

Her eyes misted at that, and she managed a weak smile. "You know," she said unsteadily, "only a Vulcan could say something like that without the slightest intent to hurt." Then, when he averted his eyes, momentarily too moved to answer, she went on softly: "Yes, my dear. I meant that as a compliment."

  
Spock and his father walked together for a long time that evening, speaking seldom, but savoring the depth and texture of their relationship. For soon, perhaps before Spock again returned to his home world, that relationship might be forever changed. As soon as Spock himself became a parent, the deep and intense bond between him and his only Vulcan parent--between him and the "father-image"--would be broken forever. For not even a Vulcan could sustain such a totally involving relationship both as a parent and as a child. As a parent, Spock would come of age as a Vulcan, and his own father would become simply a respected and revered fellow adult.

His Vulcan nature found the prospect challenging, accepting his coming change in status as he accepted the necessity of bonding to a young woman he had never met. But his human nature suffered that night a bittersweet longing to remain--not a child, but his father's son.

"Spock, why is it that you do not want to be bonded to T'Marla?" Sarek's question, in English, interrupted his thoughts.

Spock managed to control a start of surprise, but his eyebrows rose perceptibly. If his memory served him as well as it always had, this was the first time in his life that his father had ever questioned him about what he wanted. And in English?

"Want?" he repeated, confused.

"I wish to understand," Sarek answered, still in English. His voice was expressionless, but the statement carried a certain emphasis, and the word _understand_ hung in the air as though the sentence were unfinished. As though Sarek were tempted to add _you_.

 _"Try to understand your son, Sarek of Vulcan."_

 _"A strange request, but I will honor it."_

Already alert to the fact that something unusual was happening, Spock was able to control the surge of mingled gratitude and affection that was his initial response to his father's words--and to the others they brought to mind. Was it possible, he wondered, that on some deep level of consciousness, Sarek had re-experienced his contact with "Selek" even as Spock was replaying that role so recently? But grateful as he was, there was no way he could help his father understand him now. For how could any Vulcan understand why his half human son would want to choose his own mate? "It is of no consequence," he answered quietly and without expression. Sarek glanced at him briefly, but did not press him, and they walked in silence once more.

The Science Academy's Concourse of Evolution was deserted, and lit only by floodlights that played on the fountains outside. Yet the building was not locked, for no public building on Vulcan was ever locked, day or night.

Spock knew where they were heading, and why. Were his companion human, he would have suspected that he was being deliberately steered there. But he knew that this was not the case. Both he and his father were now being drawn to the same spot by a memory that was not theirs alone, but shared by every male of their race since the dawn of recorded time.

Eventually they paused together before a life-sized diorama in which two black male felinoids--prehensile, pointed-eared, and criss-crossed with gashes oozing green blood--were depicted in mortal combat. A female watched them--detached, passive, waiting to become the spoils of the victor. In the half-light that shimmered off the murmuring fountains just outside, the males' glassy eyes glowed red.

Father and son stood together for some time, gazing into the past that was present and future as well. In Spock's mind, T'Pau's words to Jim Kirk echoed and re-echoed: "This is the Vulcan heart. This is the Vulcan soul. This is our way."

Finally Sarek spoke--in Vulcan, barely above a whisper.

"Ours is not a heritage of choice, my son. One must be prepared, or risk being taken unaware."

So he had understood all along.

Again Spock felt gratitude, and love--but gently, too gently for him to feel required to control them.

He did not answer. For he knew that no answer was required, or expected.

  
The main dining room of the Officers' Club was unusual in that only the drinks were served by autowaiter. Starfleet officers on leave invariably had had their fill of meals served by computer; being able to punch up any gourmet delicacy one desired tended to lose its novelty after several years in space. The waiters, like the personnel of most Federation institutions, were human. They were also male, since the human idea that male waiters gave an establishment dignity still prevailed. The menu consisted of a list of intragalactic delicacies that seldom varied but were always prepared faultlessly to order. As a result, dinner at the Officers' Club was a most leisurely affair. Yet Sarah Halsted politely declined to have a drink.

"Oh ye of little faith," Kirk commented wryly, and was rewarded by a spontaneous, genuinely amused smile. "Mind if I have one?"

"Why should I mind?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," he answered drily, dialing his choice on the autowaiter in their booth. A chilled glass half filled with ice appeared and began to fill slowly. "You are a delightful enigma, Doctor. If I didn't know better, I'd say you aren't really human."

"I'm not," she said, still smiling.

Not taking her seriously, he returned the smile and raised his glass. "Here's to inhumanity."

"I'm not," she repeated. "At least not all human. You might appreciate this, Captain. My grandmother was a stowaway on a spaceship to Earth when she was fourteen."

His eyes on hers, Kirk took a thoughtful swallow. "You don't say."

"I'm serious."

"Your grandmother?"

"The women in my family are quite enterprising." They stared at each other for a moment, and then Sarah said softly, "Oh, no," and they both quietly cracked up.

"You did that on purpose," he said finally, but she shook her head as the waiter approached.

"Wine with your dinner, sir?" he asked eventually.

"Well--" Kirk hesitated. "I think the lady--"

"Wine would be very nice, thank you," Sarah said demurely.

"I give up. The lady," Kirk informed the waiter, "is a believer after all." The waiter stared. "The wine list, please," Kirk went on blandly. When their order was complete and the waiter was gone, he turned expectantly to his companion. "Now let's hear that sea story of yours. No--let me guess. Your grandmother stowed away and became a cabin-boy."

"Wrong."

"Sorry. Cabin-girl."

"Wrong again. When she was a small child, her parents got involved in planetary politics." Sarah frowned slightly, trying to remember. "She used to say they chose their kinsmen unwisely, whatever that means."

"Didn't she tell you?"

"I never met her. She died before I was born. My grandfather used to tell me about her. He used to say I looked like her. Anyway, some dictator came to power and disposed of everybody he didn't like. My grandmother's parents just disappeared. She was never told what happened to them--only that they were sent away. Separately. And that they could never come back. My grandfather thought they might have been spirited off-planet somehow, but that doesn't seem likely."

"Expl--I mean, why not?"

"Well, the story I got was that my grandmother's people never had space travel, and that offworld vessels never landed there until she was about eight or nine--long after her parents disappeared. The whole planet panicked at first, I guess. There'd been speculations for centuries about life on other planets, and they had a rather advanced technology in some ways. But-- well, I got all this third-hand, of course. From my grandfather."

"And he was human."

"Yes. So were my mother's parents."

"Go on." Kirk sat back, his drink forgotten. "How did she get to Earth?"

"She never felt safe because of the dictator. Her foster parents were always suspect because they took her in. So she stowed away on a cargo shuttle that was about to return to a neverlander in orbit. By the time she was discovered, they were halfway to Earth. I guess she almost starved to death in the meantime."

"She must have looked human, if you look like her. What planet did she come from?"

"It doesn't exist anymore," Sarah said with obvious regret. "I always wanted to visit there someday, but the sun went nova several months ago."

"What sun?"

"My grandfather always called it 'her star.' He used to show it to me with a telescope." For a moment she was silent, lost in some tender memory. In the soft lighting of the restaurant, her blue eyes were dream-filled, and her hair, now falling to her shoulders, again shone here and there as though laced with gold. "Beta Niobi," she said finally. "That was it. The planet was its only satellite. It was called--"

"Sarpeidon," Kirk said automatically. Then, incredulously: _"Sarpeidon?"_

  
The club's dinner was excellent, as usual. But neither of them was particularly aware of the food, so intent were they on their conversation.

"It was just like seventeenth-century England," Kirk was saying as they finished their desert. They even talked...Sarah?"

"I'm sorry. I'm listening." But her expression was thoughtful and her voice subdued. "That might have been how the dictator separated my grandmother's parents. The--Atavachron?" Kirk nodded. "How awful," she went on quietly. "Two young people with a small child, and they never saw each other again. The one thing my grandmother was told was that her parents weren't sent away together. He could have sent them anywhere. Any _time_."

Kirk nodded again. "My first officer and my chief medical officer almost froze to death in the ice age before we got it all straightened out." He paused, frowning a little, turning his wine glass absently.

"Was one of them injured?"

"Not injured. My first officer had a bad experience, though."

"That's the Vulcan."

"Yes."

Sarah watched him in silence for a few moments, again remembering his manner with Simon. Then she said gently, "He's not just a first officer to you, is he."

"No," he answered lightly. "He's my conscience. Half of it, that is. Between them, Spock and McCoy--"

"Spock? The ambassador's son?"

"You know him?"

"No. No, I've never met him. Except in my textbooks."

Kirk stared. "In your what?

"Textbooks. The pediatric journal literature at the time, actually. Your first officer was the first Vulcan/human hybrid to survive infancy. The entire sub-specialty was originally based on his case history. Everybody on the planet knows who he is."

After a moment, Kirk said grimly, "Almost a legend."

"Someone said that?"

"Someone. I didn't hear it. I was...otherwise occupied at the time, but McCoy....Sarah, what you're saying is that he grew up in a goldfish bowl?" He appeared to find the idea appalling.

"Oh, no. Quite the contrary. For the first six months or so, it was the Vulcan equivalent of a media circus. But then somebody pulled the plug. Somebody with clout. There hasn't been a thing written on him since."

To her relief, Kirk grinned. "I wonder who that could have been."

"T'Loreth thinks it was his father. His mother wasn't a luminary then."

"Is she now?"

"So I understand."

"What's her field?"

"Art history. Pre-twenty-first-century Terran music, to be exact. I hear she's a very good teacher, and she writes lucid papers. That's why she's so well known."

"I'll bet she does."

"You've met her?"

"I met both of them about a year go. It was...an experience and a half. Tell me, on Vulcan how does one--er--spend the evening and keep the faith at the same time?"

She gave him a speculative look. "Have you ever heard a bunch of Vulcans playing Bach?"

"Vulcans? Bach?"

"Are you game?"

"Just let me take care of the check." Kirk produced his Starfleet I.D. and quickly transacted business with the autowaiter. "Lead on, Doctor. This I gotta see--uh--hear?"

  
The outdoor concert lasted most of the night. It was one of a series sponsored by the Vulcan Academy of Music and given every ten days in a large parklike area on the Science Academy campus. The series had included entire programs devoted to the works of Talo of Deneb III and a twenty-first century Orion sound panoramist whose name Sarah could not remember.

For Jim Kirk, hearing "a bunch of Vulcans playing Bach" was what his first officer would have called interesting. He had expected metronomic precision and was pleasantly surprised at the amount of restrained emotion that the musicians permitted themselves. But the sounds of Vulcan instruments were alien; Kirk had the feeling that the Sixth Brandenburg had been rendered by highly sophisticated looms. "It sounds woolly," he confided to Sarah in an undertone, and went on to remark that Spock's harp had an entirely different, almost Earthly quality about its sound. He then learned that Vulcans used two entirely different instrument systems for public concerts and private recreation.

As the night wore on, they continued to converse in low tones, lying prone on the grass, propped on their elbows, surrounded by silent, attentive Vulcans in lotus position, almost in an attitude of meditation, obviously undisturbed by the two whispering humans. By the time dawn turned the sky briefly to copper, Kirk was a minor expert in Vulcan/human hybrid obstetrics, and Sarah had more than a cursory idea of how the _Enterprise_ had spent the last few years. It was Sarah's day off, and she insisted she was not tired.

"Then he said we might meet again in a few thousand years, and that there might be hope for the human race after all," Kirk was saying when Sarah finally sat up, stretching her cramped arms in front of her but still listening attentively. "The next thing I knew I was back on the bridge."

"Just like that?"

"Just." He sighed and sat up himself.

"'The advanced trait of mercy,'" she repeated thoughtfully, and then suddenly yawned. "Oh, I'm sorry. It's the hour --"

"--Not the company." Grinning, Kirk rose and pulled her to her feet. "Look, I just realized you've been up since yesterday morning, Vulcan time. I'm sorry."

"Well, Captain--"

"Oh, come on!"

"Jim, I'm really more hungry than tired." She gave him another of her speculative what-have-we-here looks. "Anybody for breakfast? My treat this time."

The night had been so long and so pleasant that he barely remembered that a few hours before, an invitation to breakfast had been the last thing he wanted, and the last thing she would have offered.

  
Sarah's apartment was a Vulcan-style efficiency in which the age-old Murphy bed principle had been developed to a fine art. All furnishings, including cooking unit and combination sink and dishwasher, were capable of being stowed in the walls, floor, or ceiling at the touch of a button. The small adjacent bathroom and storage compartments were the only three-dimensional constants.

"The least efficient aspect of this place is the time it takes to learn how to use it efficiently," Sarah remarked as she began to prepare breakfast. "I'd never used a dishwasher until I came to Vulcan, but pollution is illogical, so no disposables. You can't buy them." But she had obviously mastered the techniques well enough, and because they were both hungry, the meal was disposed of in short order, the dishes washing themselves in the wall and a couch substituted for the dinette. The furniture was clean-lined and practical, but did not appear to be stamped from a press as did most Terran furniture of the era.

The couch was extremely comfortable after a night spent on the grass. As they sipped their coffee, it was Kirk's turn to stifle a yawn. "It's the hour," he began hastily, and they both laughed, a bit light-headed from lack of sleep.

Sarah leaned back against the cushions, still smiling. "You're a comfortable person to spend the night with, Jim Kirk."

And suddenly everything changed, and they both saw quite clearly where they had been heading all along. There was no need for questions or even for words, for he knew that for her as for him, two sleepy humans loving each other after breakfast in the fresh morning of an alien world would be as natural as it was beautiful.

  
He woke at sunset, telling himself that for once he had no idea what time it was on the _Enterprise_. It wasn't true. No matter where he was or what he was doing, he always knew precisely what time it was on the _Enterprise_.

It was the middle of the afternoon there. And here, it felt like morning.

He thought drowsily that his circadian rhythms must be shot to hell. That thought was utterly delightful.

He had slept all day on a narrow couch, with another human being half on top of him. He felt cramped and stiff, but unable to stretch without waking Sarah--apparently still asleep, with her head on his shoulder and one arm around him. He was hungry, and he wanted a shower. But the only thing he really wanted was....

"Sarah?"

She stirred, sighed, and murmured drowsily, "Will you stay to dinner, sir?"

"Seems like we just had breakfast." He buried his face in the softness of her hair and gathered her close until their bodies caressed each other once more. "You through hibernating?"

"Give me an alternative." He complied wordlessly, elaborating. "That," she said, still drowsy, "is a lovely alternative."

They made love together as the day ended and the darkness wrapped them in purple velvet. And it occurred to him that it had been a long time since he had been this close to anyone, and that he didn't really know what he meant by that thought.

  
Having slept all day, neither of them was tired now. They lay quiet in each other's arms for a few moments, and then Sarah kissed his ear and said softly, "Up, James."

"Why?"

"Up. That's an order." She smiled, anticipating the substance of his answer, and what she would do in response.

"I respectfully decline," he answered smugly, not moving.

"You do, do you." Her hands strayed down his sides, fingertips brushing lightly.

"Hey--no fair!" They were both laughing as he rolled off the edge of the couch and knelt beside her on the floor. But then he winced and groaned, rotating his shoulders. "Bad mistake. We should have pulled down the bed."

"Maybe. But you brought most of that with you." She slipped to her knees behind him and laid her hands on his shoulders where the muscles were still knotted. "Come on, sit. This is why I wanted you to get up." She began to knead the muscles expertly as he moved to a sitting position. "How long since your last leave?"

"Too long." He laid his arms across his drawn-up knees and rested his forehead on them. "My God--she cooks, she gives back rubs...."

"Enjoy it while you can," she said lightly. "She also has to go back to work tomorrow." He began to turn his head to look at her. "Relax. Don't twist around like that, all right?" After a moment he turned back. Again, she was sure she could anticipate what he would say next. But this time she did not smile.

"Could I talk you into taking some time off?"

"I can't," she answered gently. "I only have one more tenday on the job before I leave Vulcan. There are a lot of things I have to finish up, and the work day is ten hours here."

"Well," he said wryly, "at least we've progressed a little since 'No, Captain, I'm not.'" He was silent for a moment, and this time she did not anticipate him. "Sarah, do you still think this doesn't mean anything to me?"

"No." Abandoning her futile attempt to massage away his tension, she moved to sit beside him on the floor, and put her arms around him once again, holding him close. "I think this is what you were really looking for. And I think I was too." After a moment he nodded, and they held each other quietly, having made love too recently for her move or his response to lead to anything more. "But it's different for me."

"Why?"

"You're not really here, Jim, and I don't believe you ever would be. I don't know what I mean by that. But I think _you_ might." When he did not answer, she ran her open palm slowly over his shoulder and down his arm. "I don't know where my point of no return is, and I don't want to find out the hard way."

"That's why you won't take time off."

"That's why I wouldn't, even if I could. Don't frown. Be grateful." With both arms around his shoulders, she turned her head until her forehead rested against his. "I've spared you having to say something that begins with 'Let's just.' Or would it be 'Don't spoil'?"

He smiled a little, but he winced nevertheless. "Who started this conversation anyway?"

"You."

"Me?

"You were all for my starting to rearrange my life around yours, remember?"

He drew his head back a little, gazing at her speculatively, no longer smiling. "Was that what I was doing?"

"Wasn't it?"

"Depends on your point of view, I guess." Still the speculative look, but a wry smile was beginning to return. "Oh, to see ourselves as others see us."

"Enough." She kissed him lightly and rose. "I want to take a shower. You want to go first, or--" He was grinning broadly now. "Just full of ideas, aren't you, Captain."

"I'm supposed to take an evening stroll in this?" He wore his uniform trousers and boots, but was reluctant to put on the golden dress shirt he had worn to the Officers' Club the evening before.

After a moment's thought, Sarah retrieved a folded shirt from a bottom drawer. "You can wear this if you want to," she said slowly. "It was--left here by mistake. Some time ago."

It was light-colored, collarless, soft and loose. He took it from her with obvious hesitation. "Sure he won't mind?"

"Don't worry about it." Then, answering his unspoken question: "We were together for three years while we were in med school, and we came here to intern at Salk together. Then I went to the Academy, and he--didn't. That was about two years ago."

"Where is he now?"

She sighed, smiling faintly. "You had to ask that, didn't you. He's doing a Starfleet residency. On the _Lexington_."

"Oh, that's just...great." He pulled the shirt over his head. "If the shirt fits, wear it, huh?"

She shook her head. "It wasn't Starfleet. We were finished by the time he left. We just--grew apart. It was time for one of us to go, and he was never really...." Her voice trailed off.

"'Here'?" he asked softly.

She took his hand as they moved toward the door. "Don't put words in my mouth, Jim. I was going to say 'committed.' And no, they're not the same thing at all."

  
As they left the area in which she lived, she asked him about his family. When they reached the Academy grounds ten minutes later, he was still answering her question.

"...Letters. Would you believe? On paper. Sometimes it takes months for me to get them." An expression of wistful tenderness crossed his face. "Sometimes I wonder if he's still the same kid he was when he wrote them. They can change pretty fast at his age."

"You're like a second father to him?"

"Sam was his father," he said firmly. "That's one reason I want to keep in touch. He's living with his mother's relatives, and I don't want him ever to forget who his father was. It 's the least I can do for my brother--and for his son." He paused, looking up at the building they were approaching. "I remember this. It's an anthropological museum, isn't it?"

"I didn't know you'd ever been to the Academy before."

"It was an interplanetary tour. With Sam and my parents. I was just a kid--younger than Peter is now." A faint frown. "Is it open at this time of night?" They had spent some time in the shower and more over dinner, and the hour was late.

"There are no locked doors on Vulcan. Do you want to go in?"

"I--" The frown deepened. Watching him, she wondered what might be disturbing him. But then he drew himself together. "Do you mind? There's something....I want to see if it's really the way I remember it."

A few moments later, they stood close to the spot where Spock and his father had stood together a few hours before, and looked at the same re-creation of Vulcan historical anthropology.

He had dropped her hand as they approached the diorama, and now he began to pace, pausing to look at the display and then pacing again. Eventually he turned abruptly to face her.

"Do you know what this is about?" This was a side of him that she had not seen before.

 _Snappish, aren't you, Captain._ "Yes. Do you?"

"Where did you get your information?"

"I deliver Vulcan babies, remember? T'Loreth thought it was necessary that I be completely informed about their reproductive cycle. How do you know--"

"I don't mean just that. This....Now, this is the Challenge. Kal-i-fee."

"How do you know that?"

"Just look at her." But he turned his back on the display, his manner no longer arrogantly demanding. "Sarah, I need some answers. But I can't give you any. Can you accept that?"

She hesitated briefly, and then nodded. "All right."

"The Challenge only happens when both males are...in danger of death, right?" He had obviously given the matter considerable thought. "That's why it's logical--because one of them has to die anyway." She nodded. "Then how the devil can they justify her choosing somebody else as her champion?"

"The challenging male must have been at some physical disadvantage."

"He sure didn't look it."

"Didn't he agree to the substitution?"

"Well--yes. Reluctantly." He was frowning again. "The one thing I haven't figured out is how he just happened to get that way right then. It seems like one hell of a coincidence."

"He must have been unbonded, and she must have set him off."

"Deliberately?"

"She could have."

"That she could," he said grimly.

"In most cases it's not deliberate. It just happens. An unbonded male is very vulnerable toward the end of his cycle."

"Only then?"

"Yes. Only then." She hesitated, and then went on quietly. "Jim, your friend is still something of an anomaly. If he's unbonded now for some reason, he and his father will be extra cautious."

"That's what I keep telling myself." He glanced at her uneasily. "You think I've been talking about him all along?"

"I don't see how you could be. In the situation you were questioning me about at first, one of them won her and the other one died."

His hand strayed to his throat, and then away again. "What if the winner didn't take her? Could he survive?"

"Unlikely. But it's a temporary hormonal imbalance. A severe shock of some kind might snap him out of it. There are a few undocumented cases. Very few."

"I see." He stood silent, lost in a memory. Then, suddenly, he smiled.

"Well," she said softly, "I'm glad you remembered _that_ , whatever it was."

"It was--ah--something of an anomaly. Shall we go?" Still smiling, he cocked his head slightly to one side. "I suppose you have to have a good night's sleep before you go to work tomorrow?"

She did not answer, but simply walked to him and put her arm around his waist. They continued on out of the building together, his arm around her shoulders.

  


Two weeks later, the crew of the _Enterprise_ had reassembled, tired but presumably happy after their first shore leave in six months. At 1600 that afternoon, their two passengers would beam aboard. And two hours later they would leave orbit.

When Leonard McCoy chanced to run into the captain as the latter was on his way to the bridge, he noted with some concern that Kirk, who had enjoyed his leave after a mysterious disappearance the first two nights ashore, nevertheless appeared a bit weary and somewhat preoccupied. He listened to McCoy's usual complaints about wearing full-dress uniforms to dinner that evening with a knowing half smile. "You'll forget about your neck soon enough, Bones. I guarantee it."

"Vulcan medics don't promise to be diverting dinner companions," McCoy answered sourly as they fell into step.

"Dr. Halsted isn't a Vulcan. You'll like her"

"Her?" McCoy expression abruptly changed to a grin, and Kirk chuckled. Then, still grinning, the doctor gave him a sly glance. "Ah, now I get it."

"What?"

"Where you were those first two nights. Your little pre-leave mission wasn't so hard to take after all, huh? Captain, I'd say you're still in top form."

"Shut up."

Astounded, McCoy stopped in his tracks while Kirk strode on and disappeared around a corner.

"Jim--"

But he was gone.

Trying to figure out what had happened, McCoy thoughtfully continued on toward Sickbay. Abrupt as Jim's reaction had been, he had not seemed angry. Impatient, maybe. And mildly disgusted.

 _Look who's playing holier-than-thou._ But by the time the doctor reached Sickbay, another explanation of Kirk's behavior had occurred to him.

He found Spock inspecting the physical and psychological profiles of two new crew members assigned to the Science division while the rest of them had been on leave. His presence was not unexpected: the first officer invariably had the life history of every new member of his division committed to memory before he or she had been aboard very long. But Spock too was a shade preoccupied.

"Doctor," he asked finally, "were you with the captain while you were on leave?"

"Off and on. Why?"

"I find it difficult to understand why humans often appear to be more fatigued after shore leave than before. The captain does not appear rested to me."

"He played pretty hard this time." The word _compulsively_ occurred to McCoy, and his hypothesis rapidly took shape. "Look, Spock--Jim, um, spent some time with one of our passengers. Dr. Halsted. She's a woman." Spock's eyebrows rose "He seems--somewhat involved. It could run its course, but it just might develop into something. I think we should keep hands off. He can handle it."

"Doctor, you have just used two metaphors and four euphemisms to describe a phenomenon with which we are both...." The first officer of the _Enterprise_ permitted himself the smallest of sighs. "...Reasonably familiar." One eyebrow cocked. "Unusually lyrical even for you, if I may say so."

"You already have." McCoy scowled. "Leave didn't do you a bit o' good, did it." He turned away and finished grumpily, "Get out of here, Spock. I've got work to do."

"I am quite rested, thank you, Doctor."

"Out!"

"Very well." Spock drifted out, looking vaguely offended.  


  


  


Having seen Sarah Halsted wearing a medical tunic, an informal summer outfit, a bathrobe, and nothing at all, Jim Kirk was totally unprepared for the apparition in pale blue that appeared at the captain's table that evening. Spock and McCoy had not yet arrived, and only Scotty and Sutek were witness to Kirk's speechless stare as she took his outstretched hand.

"Captain Kirk." If she were in the least embarrassed, no one would have known it. "It's good to see you again." And she obviously meant it.

He realized immediately that he had been foolish to avoid her when she beamed up. One thing he and Sarah could never be was uncomfortable with one another.

"Welcome aboard, Doctor." He turned to introduce his chief engineer, noting with some amusement that Sutek's eyebrows had risen precipitously at the sight of his colleague in non-work attire, and that Scott looked bedazzled.

The four of them were making small talk about Scott's attractively nationalistic dress uniform when the door swished to admit McCoy.

Eager to make amends to his abruptness earlier in the day, Kirk took Sarah's arm. "Doctor, I'd like you to meet my chief medical officer, Leonard McCoy...."

The captain's voice drifted into silence.

McCoy stood as though rooted to the spot, staring at Sarah, the color draining from his face. Then, finally, he moved forward again--but slowly, his eyes fixed on Sarah with a kind of horrified fascination.

"Bones," Kirk said firmly, "Sarah Halsted." What the devil was the matter with him?

"Doctor...Halsted?" McCoy swallowed, and finally managed a weak smile.

"Good evening, Dr. McCoy." Sarah's voice was firm and pleasant as usual. But she was clearly aware that McCoy was behaving oddly. "I'm sorry. Is there something wrong?"

"No. No, I--" With an obvious effort, McCoy pulled himself together, managing a reasonable facsimile of his usual smile. "You look very much like--well, that's an old line, isn't it." He gave Sarah his hand, still studying her intently. "You were born on Earth?"

"Yes."

"Yes. Of course you were." McCoy frowned. "My apologies, Doctor. I seem to have forgotten my manners. Welcome aboard." But almost before Sarah's "Thank you" was audible, the door swished open again to admit Spock.

In an instant, McCoy was at Sarah's side, guiding her toward the first officer. "Dr. Halsted--" He had suddenly come alive: the genial southern gentleman making introductions. "Dr. Halsted--" As they neared Spock, McCoy repeated the name again, emphasizing it slightly. "This is Commander Spock, first officer of the _Enterprise_. Commander, Dr. Sarah Halsted." For the third time.

It seemed to Kirk that his first officer had almost turned to stone. For a split second, Spock's eyes widened in shock; if someone had struck him without warning or apparent motivation, the effect would have been similar. Watching, Kirk winced with involuntary empathy. But then Spock's every muscle stiffened and slowly relaxed as McCoy's voice went on smoothly, covering the silence with pleasantries while Spock established his control. Kirk had no idea what the doctor was saying. Nor, he was sure, had Spock.

  
Sarah was quite aware of the first officer's initial reaction to her, even as she had been of McCoy's. Having worked with Vulcans for several years, she read with ease the signs of strong emotion quickly controlled, and wondered how in the universe she could be causing so much havoc simply by her presence at a social gathering. Thank heaven for the likes of Leonard McCoy. As she exchanged greetings with the now impassive Spock, she wondered briefly whether he appreciated the excellent job the doctor was doing of diverting everyone's attention from Spock's momentary struggle for control.

After its shaky start, the cocktail hour passed uneventfully. Jim Kirk, having realized (Sarah thought affectionately) that he was in no danger of being embarrassed in front of Sutek and his senior officers, relaxed and promptly reverted to his usual charming self. Scott invited the two passengers to tour the engine room the next day, and was obviously delighted when both of them accepted. Sarah had the impression that Spock was pleased to have another Vulcan on board, and she was sure that Sutek was relieved not to have to spend the entire voyage in the company of humans.

She enjoyed the dinner thoroughly, and readily answered McCoy's interested questions about her work, trying not to confuse the others with technical jargon.

"I understand," McCoy was saying as they began their dessert, "that the brachial implant genetic synthesizer has been perfected to a point where conception is almost certain and delivery at term is virtually without incident. Are the artificial gestation units obsolete now?"

Sarah nodded. "Essentially, yes. The AGU's were a temporary measure thirty or forty years ago, when the synthesizers frequently malfunctioned. But the mortality rate for the AGU's was over 50 percent. As soon as the synthesizers could maintain the fetus to term, in vitro gestation was abandoned. That was about--" She glanced at Sutek. _Over 50 percent_ had been bad enough. She would let him take this one.

"Twenty-four point six seven standard years ago," Sutek contributed expressionlessly. It was almost the first time he had spoken during dinner, and McCoy turned to him politely.

"You must find it exciting--er--" McCoy glanced at Spock. "--Fascinating to do research among the Kiso, Dr. Sutek."

"Indeed. The experience will be most interesting." Sutek frowned slightly. "However, one must be prepared for an initial period of failure when working with a new racial mixture. During the initial phase of the Terran/Vulcan project, the fetal and maternal death rate was 95.4 percent. The synthesizer must be adjusted over a period of time--"

"Maternal death rate?" McCoy interrupted, startled. "From blood poisoning? But isn't there some warning when the synthesizer fails?"

"Indeed." Sutek spoke the single word and then firmly remained silent.

"But--" McCoy hesitated, genuinely confused. "Terminating such pregnancies as soon as the mother's life was in jeopardy ought to have kept the maternal death rate considerably lower than the fetal death rate."

There was another short silence. Then Sutek said quietly and with obvious resignation to the inevitable: "Vulcans do not terminate pregnancies, Doctor."

McCoy stared. "You don't _what_?"

Sutek repeated himself expressionlessly.

"You mean it's against the _law_ to perform a therapeutic abortion on Vulcan?"

"Indeed."

Kirk moved uneasily in his chair. "Bones--"

"No, no. I want to hear this." McCoy waved his hand at the captain as though he were chasing a fly away. With a somewhat forced smile: "Dr. Sutek and I are scientists. I'm sure we can discuss this--er--unemotionally."

Spock blinked once, but did not speak. Belatedly, Sarah realized that he had not participated in the conversation at all. Yet he watched both Sutek and McCoy intently, as though he were the first-time observer of a fascinating phenomenon.

"It is the Vulcan way, Doctor," Sutek answered with the touch of condescension. McCoy apparently brought out the worst in him, Sarah thought regretfully. He sounded downright stuffy. "Vulcans believe that death is tragic only if the life is wasted. A life terminated in utero is the ultimate waste, since the individual in question was given no opportunity to actualize his or her potential. Thus abortion is the ultimate crime."

McCoy opened his mouth, but Scott began to speak before the doctor could. "What ye seem to be sayin', Doctor Sutek, is that ye'd let a woman die because she's lived longer than her child." He shook his head in disbelief. "Mon, that's inhuman!"

In spite of the gravity of the subject, Sarah could not restrain the smallest of smiles. Then she realized that Spock was watching her. Their eyes met for a moment, and then he looked away, his expression again impassive. But for just a moment she had had the impression that he too was about to smile.

"That's not really what Sutek was saying, Mr. Scott," she began, deciding that the time for clarification was overdue. "No Vulcan would ever let anyone die. Many times at the Academy I've seen four or five Vulcan physicians working around the clock to save a patient. I rarely saw that happen when I was interning at the hospital for offworlders, where the staff is 75 percent human."

"But--but--" Scott was almost sputtering now, and Sarah began to like him even more than she had before, realizing that he could be as genuinely upset about an ethical problem as he was enthusiastic about his beloved engines.

"There's another aspect to the ethical question," she went on. "Did you ever notice that a Vulcan almost never says 'Thank you'?"

"Aye." Scott exhaled gustily, now glowering at Spock. "That I have." Spock stared back at him, one eyebrow slightly elevated. McCoy was grimacing, and Kirk sat with his hand hiding his mouth.

"On Vulcan," Sarah continued, "it's the giver, not the receiver, who's obligated. No gift is ever given lightly, or for superficial reasons. The word for 'gift' translates 'mine-to-you,' and the choice of what is suitable to be given to someone else is made with a great deal of thought. Instead of saying 'Thank you,' the receiver says 'I accept your gift of self.' And the giver answers 'The obligation is mine' instead of 'You're welcome.'" Sarah hesitated. But neither Spock nor Sutek seemed to want to add anything to what she was saying. "The gift of life is the most valuable gift of all, and the receiver is infinitely vulnerable. A child can't choose to exist or not to exist. So the one who gives life is infinitely obligated. A Vulcan woman understands this, and accepts the obligation at the time of her--betrothal."

"Your patients are human women," McCoy said flatly.

"They understand," Sarah insisted firmly. "They choose, understanding. No Vulcan would marry a woman who didn't understand--and accept."

The discussion had run its course, and both Scott and Sutek excused themselves. As the Vulcan geneticist took his leave of McCoy and the captain, Scott hesitated beside the first officer.

"I suppose, Mr. Spock," the chief engineer said wryly, "that I should have thanked you for trustin' me in the access tube that time with the integrator bypass control?"

Again, Spock's eyebrow rose. "Only if your ethics so dictate, Mr. Scott," he answered, not quite deadpan. And Sarah thought, _My God, he's pulling the Scot's leg. A Vulcan?_ And then she remembered.

"Ach!" Scott threw up his hands, both amused and disgusted, and turned to Sarah. "Doctor, I'd be honored to give ye a wee tour of the engine room if you're not too tired."

"Ah--Scotty," Kirk interrupted hastily, "I planned to show Dr. Halsted the ship this evening." His smiling eyes met Sarah's. "If you're not busy, Doctor."

"But you already know I'm not busy, Captain," Sarah returned in kind, and noticed that McCoy was watching them. That man, she decided, did not miss much.

  
A few minutes later, McCoy and Spock entered the turbolift together. When the doors slid shut, McCoy said, "Spock, I'm sorry I didn't have time to warn you about--about Dr. Halsted. It all happened so fast--"

To his surprise, Spock turned to look directly at him, hands clasped behind his back. Prepared for some sort of verbal onslaught, McCoy had difficulty keeping his mouth from dropping open at Spock's words.

"I accept your gift of self." The voice was almost expressionless, yet there was an unfamiliar quality to it that was very like gentleness. "You achieved your purpose quite efficiently, Doctor."

"The obligation...." Trying to get it right, McCoy narrowed his eyes slightly. "...Is mine?"

"Doctor McCoy--" Still the unfamiliar tone, but now there was a touch of affectionate mockery there too. "I think there's hope for you after all." The lift doors swished open, and Spock moved out quickly. "Good night." And he began to walk rapidly down the corridor toward his quarters.

"Hey--that's not your line!" But Spock had already disappeared.

  
"I seem to have upset your first officer."

The tour of the ship had ended on the observation deck. The warp engines were not engaged, since Scott was giving them a periodic inspection, the timing of which was included in the calculation of their ETA on Tara. But it seemed to Sarah that the panorama of stars outside was passing at breath-taking speed nevertheless.

"McCoy too."

"Yes, but Spock was controlling, and it was very difficult for him."

"You mean repressing," Kirk said absently, his mind still on McCoy.

"No, I mean controlling. They're not the same thing, you know."

Now giving her his full attention, he said skeptically, "No, I don't know."

"Vulcans can trigger the inhibitory neurological mechanism in the hypothalamus at will. It's part of their mind-body integration. In effect, they flip a switch, and the emotion goes away. It's not repressed. It's just gone."

"But why?"

"You know their philosophy. Emotions get in the way of clean living." She sighed. "I'm sorry. They make it work. No wars for centuries. No crime. No petty bickering. And they don't get ulcerative colitis, or migraines, or hypertension--unless the cause is physiological. We should do as well."

"But Spock wasn't able to--we could see that he was upset. It's happened before."

"His control is more erratic than a full Vulcan's. Like Simon's. They have to work at it. A full Vulcan does it almost automatically, on the pre-conscious level. But they all can startle or feel pain if the stimulus is strong or unexpected." Kirk nodded. "Then they have to repress, or something like repression. But that's not what a Vulcan means by 'control.'" Kirk shook his head, obviously not completely convinced. "Jim, if it were repression, they'd all be psychotic by the time they're ten. No humanoid could continuously repress emotion and remain sane."

"I wonder why Spock never told me."

"Did you ever ask him? They take it for granted, just like we take our preconceptions for granted."

He was looking at her speculatively now. "Do you think it's--a better way than ours?"

"For the society, definitely. For the individual...." She shook her head. "It depends on the individual. Hybrids are in a double bind. The Vulcan physiology is always genetically dominant, but without rigorous training they can't control the way a full Vulcan does. The Vulcan parent has expectations that invariably aren't met. So does the human parent. It can get pretty complicated."

"Mmm." He was beginning to smile. "Well, we did end up talking about Vulcans after all."

"Among other things." She too was smiling, but he knew that she was not completely at ease with him now. "Did you enjoy your leave?"

After a moment, he said softly, "Still 'no,' huh?"

She sighed, but relaxed a little. "In a minute it's going to be my turn to say 'Don't spoil.'" Sensing what she wanted to do, and why she was afraid to, he took her gently in his arms and drew her head onto his shoulder. She relaxed completely then, holding him as she had when she had said _I think this is what you were really looking for_. "When we were planetside, I said you weren't really 'here,' but I didn't know what I meant. I do now--seeing you on your ship, especially when we were on the bridge. And you weren't even on duty. There's something--I can't even describe it in words. But there just isn't enough of you to go around."

Slowly he pulled away and gazed intently into her eyes, holding her by the shoulders. "Sarah, are you a telepath?"

"Me? No. Quite the contrary. Why?"

"You--sense things that aren't even being verbalized. You've done it with me several times."

"It's not thoughts," she answered, frowning a little. "It's feelings. Beliefs. Gut-level things. I've done it ever since I can remember."

"Can you believe," he asked softly, still looking directly at her, "that I wish there _were_ enough of me to go around?"

"Oh, yes." This time she did not hesitate to put her arms around him. "I could believe that very easily."

  
"So that's it," Kirk was saying to McCoy a few minutes later. He smiled wistfully. "At least I got my beach to walk on. For a little while, anyway."

"What more did you want?" McCoy asked carefully, pouring.

"I don't know, Bones. I wish I did."

"It's all off, then?"

"So it would seem." Kirk downed half his drink. "Now kindly tell me what that was all about before dinner. You looked like you were seeing a ghost."

"I thought I was," McCoy answered softly. "Her voice is different, and her personality is very different. But she's a dead ringer for Zarabeth."

"I was afraid of that." At McCoy's astounded look, Kirk repeated Sarah's story about her alien grandmother. "If she's not a direct descendant, she could be a relative. Well, she's made it more than clear that she doesn't want to get emotionally involved with me. If Spock is interested in her--"

"Jim, she's not Zarabeth. She just looks like her. I talked to Spock afterwards. He's fine." A faint, wry smile. "My advice is let well enough alone."

"You don't think I should say something to him?"

"What're you going to say? 'I can't score again, buddy. She's all yours'? No, don't get mad again. Hell, I've got eyes. I know it's not like that. But think through the conversation, will you? What could you possibly say to him that wouldn't give him the wrong impression?"

  
During the two-week trip to Tara, McCoy found himself spending more time with Sarah Halsted than he had expected to.

Kirk had taken his advice about Spock, as far as he knew. The first officer had regained his usual composure, and treated both passengers with his usual impersonal courtesy. McCoy had the impression that Sarah and the captain still spent time together, and she also conferred with Sutek on several occasions. But it was to the chief medical officer that she turned most often for companionship, and as the voyage continued, she began to volunteer her services in Sickbay on a daily basis. She was a pleasant and efficient colleague, and McCoy found himself regretting that her stay aboard the _Enterprise_ would be so brief.

"Whatever made you decide to intern on Vulcan?" he asked her on the second-last afternoon of their voyage. There had been a general announcement that the warp engines would be tested at 1800, and most of the crew were involved in preparations for the test. Except for McCoy and Sarah, the Sickbay was deserted, and they had moved into his office for coffee.

"My area of specialization. Vulcans are the galactic experts in hybrid obstetrics."

"Is that why you're doing a residency at the Science Academy?"

"Partly that. Partly because I wanted to work in a Vulcan hospital."

"Why?" McCoy asked wryly. "I think one Vulcan is about all I could stand on a regular basis."

"Their professionalism, Doctor," she answered quietly, but with a sympathetic smile. "They irritate me too sometimes. But when a Vulcan does something, it generally gets done right."

They sat over coffee in companionable silence for a few moments. At least it seemed to be companionable silence. For several days, McCoy had had the impression that Sarah was not herself. It was nothing he could describe specifically, even to himself. She did not appear unwell, but simply preoccupied. Now he considered whether he should leave well enough alone. But there was something--

"If we're going into warp drive, I have to ask you for an anti-ab shot."

For a moment, he literally could not comprehend what she had said. She was looking at him steadily, with a kind of calm but genuine apology in her eyes, as though she regretted the inconvenience.

Automatically, he reached for his medical scanner, which told a story eminently decipherable to them both.

In the silence after he shut it off, she said quietly, "No, Doctor, I am not on estrogen. Your diagnosis is correct. Space medicine isn't my specialty, but I believe I need a shot before 1800. Not that I understand why."

"Join the club." It came out sounding like a croak, and McCoy cleared his throat, still staring at her. "Nobody understands why yet. It just--happens." Then, abruptly, he rose and went to prepare the medication she had requested. It was none of his business, he told himself. A colleague had become a patient and requested treatment. The fact that the same colleague and the captain of the _Enterprise_ appeared to have regressed to the twentieth century was their business, not his. But the more he thought about it, the madder it made him. _Now you've done it, Jim-boy_.

Returning to where she sat, he said as casually as he could, "You do understand that if you don't have this, all your worries'll be over by morning." But try as he would, he could not keep the brittle sarcasm out of his voice.

"Is that your standard speech, Doctor?"

"I don't have a standard speech, Doctor. There isn't much call for this p'ticular pound o' cure."

All human she was not, but the reference was obviously not lost on her.

"I lived with a human male for three years while we were in medical school." Although she seemed to find it necessary to justify herself, she did not sound particularly defensive. "For two of those years, we--I wanted a child, and he thought he did. Nothing happened. We were tested for genetic incompatibility, and the tests were inconclusive. Still nothing, for another year and a half. I--this time, I just never even thought about it. You're right. That was irresponsible. But I didn't accomplish this all by myself, you know."

"I'm sure Jim made the same assumption you did," McCoy said uneasily. "Most of them would have, and most of the time they'd be right. He knows that."

"Would have?" she repeated wryly. "You can do better than that, Doctor Starfleet, sir. Are you telling me that it's standard procedure to let a healthy, sexually active male in the prime of life go running around the galaxy making assumptions?"

McCoy sighed. "You're not gonna believe this."

Sarah closed her eyes and gently massaged the lids. "Try me."

"He's allergic to about half the synthetics in existence." She was already nodding, still massaging her closed lids. "If he ever gets hypermetropic, I won't even be able to give him Retinax Three."

"It figures." She sighed, dropping her hand. "Comedy of errors. Except--it's never very funny, is it."

"That it's not." McCoy held out the airhypo. "This will be effective until you get to Tara," he said gently. "It'll give you some time to think."

"I don't need any more time to think. I've been doing almost nothing but for the last three or four days." She held out her hand. "If you will, Doctor." He laid the hypo in her palm, and she expertly injected herself.

She was not Joanna, he told himself, anymore than she was Zarabeth. But it was no use. "You're not going to have an abortion?"

"No."

"Why?"

"I've seen a few." Their gaze held, and he nodded briefly. "Besides, it's not what I want. Can I talk to you about this?"

"Ah--I'm not sure I'm the one you should be talking to. I might not be able to tell you what you want to hear."

"But you don't know what I want to hear," she answered quietly. "You just think you do. He and I aren't looking for the same thing."

"Are you sure?"

"Doctor McCoy, if I were to say 'Love would make him over' or 'In his heart of hearts he wants a permanent commitment' or 'This time it's different for him,' what would be your answer?"

For the first time since the conversation began, McCoy felt himself relax a little. This might not be as bad as he had thought it was going to be. "It is different. You've become friends--had time to become friends. He generally doesn't have that opportunity. Nor do any of us."

She nodded, smiling a little. "Yes, we have. But you didn't answer the first two."

"Sarah, I can't speak for him. You know that. All I can say is--he even surprises me once in a while. He could surprise you too."

"I doubt it." It was simply a statement of fact. He could detect no resentment in it. "But I want this child. My parents were killed when I was eight, and I never had anyone who was really mine after that."

"My dear, you can't expect your child to fill that void!"

She shook her head. "It isn't that I want to fill a void. It's that I want _my_ baby to have _me_." For the first time, tears came to her eyes.

Touched, he nevertheless felt a twinge of apprehension. One thing Jim didn't need was for history to repeat itself. "What about Jim? You must expect something of him."

"I expect him to care." She drew a deep breath, blinking away the tears. "The first time I saw him, he was protecting and comforting a child he'd never seen before." Briefly, she described the scene at the emergency entrance of the hospital. "And Peter is--" She glanced questioningly at McCoy, who nodded, watching her intently. "Jim talked to me about him. He has quite an emotional investment there, and Peter is only his nephew. He's proud of him, and he doesn't want him to forget who his father was. It's just--not all that hard to see what he'd be like with his own child." She leaned forward and put her hand on his. "He's arrogant and self-centered, and I'm not all that easy to live with. Even if we were together, we'd probably last about a year. But he's also the sweetest man I've ever met. What am I supposed to do--get rid of the baby I want because I can't make Jim Kirk over? That way, we'd all lose."

After a moment, McCoy said slowly, "You _have_ done a lot of thinking."

"I had to."

"Well--that doesn't necessarily follow. Unfortunately." He hesitated. "Not that it's any of my business--"

"I was the one who wanted to talk, remember?"

"Do you have any family at all?"

She nodded. "That's part of what I've been thinking about. I have a cousin--Christopher Jones. His parents took me in when I lost mine, so he's really more like a brother. He and his wife were in medical school with me, and they're both doing residencies at Salk. They're my best friends. They're part of an extended." She paused, watching his face. He was trying not to change expression, but not succeeding. "An extended family, Doctor. Not a communal marriage. They share responsibilities, not partners."

"Who said something?" McCoy looked around. "Did I say something?"

"All right." But she was still smiling a little. "Anyway, Cris and Mary have been trying to talk me into moving in, and I think that just might be my answer. It's worth a try."

He nodded, still watching her intently. "When are you going to tell Jim?"

"Not until Sutek and I finish our assignment on Tara," she answered firmly. "He might take it into his head that I shouldn't go for some reason, and I don't want to quarrel with him. Not about this."

An attendant came to the door and summoned McCoy to the examining room: a crerw member had wrenched his back working out in the gym. McCoy waved the attendant away, but rose reluctantly, his eyes on hers.

"It's too bad." He smiled a bit wistfully. "You make a striking couple."

"Would that it were that simple."

He nodded wearily and departed, wishing he could shake the lingering apprehension that, after this voyage, none of their lives would ever be the same.

  
Tara (nee Blacktower) might have been Earth's twin but for the fact that many of the dominant life forms were insectoid, and that no known intelligent species had evolved on the planet. Its day was 23.5 hours, Standard, and its year 378 local days. It had two small natural satellites named Armstrong and Aldrin. Its sun was a middle-aged yellow star approximately six light years from Earth, but invisible to pre-twenty-first-century telescopes because of its proximity to the great Centaurus binary.

The planet's equatorial latitudes were a fertile wilderness, temperate in climate the year around. Here Earthmen had built their city, the beginning of a colony that they hoped would one day provide an alternate home for some of the millions of humans who yearly left their over-populated planet to seek _lebensraum_ among the stars. The most modern agricultural methods were used to cultivate every bit of arable land within many kilometers of the city's heart; the culture was essentially agrarian, but its objectives were Promethean. "Toward a New Earth" was the motto of Eustace George, the human governor-general. And the city did indeed resemble a Terran city of that era.

But only a few minutes away by hovercraft, Tara's most intriguing natural formation rose toward the sky--the Black Tower for which the planet had originally been named. The mountain was made of a crystalline black substance twice as dense as granite and laced with many metallic ores. A shining monument to the movement of some ancient glacier, it towered above the newly cultivated plain, surrounded at its base by a freshwater lake that appeared bottomless, reflecting in its translucent depths the Tower itself as well as a wide expanse of the planet's pale green sky.

The original colonists had christened the lake Tower's Ring. But shortly thereafter, someone on the Federation Council had suggested that the new colony was serious business and should not be made to sound like a mythological kingdom. The fact that the city was called Tower City was bad enough, or so it was said at the highest reaches of bureaucracy. The idea took hold, and for a few years the planet had been known as UFP 1248, its official Federation designation. But the second governor-general had been a nationalistic Irishman named Flynn, who had renamed the planet Tara, the Gaelic word for "tower." From that time on, there was no longer any hope of making anyone call the planet Twelve-Forty-eight again.

The colony had been flourishing for six standard years when several spaceships full of Kiso refugees had requested political asylum there. The Kiso--four-toed humanoids with copper-based blood --were natives of the fourth planet in Tara's solar system, a scant 11,000,000 miles away. A more aggressive species even than humans, the Kiso were at the time engaged in systematically exterminating one another, their method a unique combination of antiquated atomic weaponry and sophisticated space-to-surface missiles (SPASMs).

The Kiso defectors consisted of the losing side's peace agitators, jaded by war and in fear for their lives. At first their hopes for finding asylum seemed doomed: the dominant faction back home had threatened to annihilate the entire Tara colony if the defectors were not returned, and seemed totally unimpressed by the warnings of the Federation. But after considerable negotiation, the Kiso had agreed to leave Tara unmolested if no further refugees were permitted to land there.

The treaty had finally been signed three standard years before the Federation had given the Vulcan Sutek and the Terran Sarah Halsted a three-month grant to do research among Tara's human/Kiso population. The intermarriages had been relatively few in terms of the general population, but the possibilities of opening new frontiers for research were obvious: although almost two dozen human/Kiso marriages had taken place over a period of five years, no living offspring had been born to any of these couples.

When Sarah and Sutek beamed down with their equipment, the captain of the _Enterprise_ designated his first officer as their official escort.

"No," he had assured McCoy earlier that day, "I'm not 'playing cupid.' Eustace George is the governor-general of a Federation colony, and I can't get away. As long as we're so deep in Federation space, Scotty's cleaning house. He's got the phaser banks deactivated for maintenance inspection, and he wants me to approve some modifications. We might as well get that done while we're in orbit around Tara."

Both McCoy and the captain were on hand to wish their passengers farewell in the transporter room. Spock and Sutek watched, impassive, from their positions on the pads as McCoy kissed Sarah's cheek and patted her shoulder. "Take care, now," he said gently, and Sarah nodded and briefly pressed his hand before turning to the captain.

"I'd like to say 'Keep in touch,'" he said wistfully as they hugged each other. "But I don't know if it'd do any good."

Moving away a little, she took his hands in hers, her smiling gaze holding his. "I might surprise you."

Kirk was aware that Spock was now giving Sarah and his captain his familiar puzzled-pixie appraisal. Relieved that his friend no longer found Sarah disturbing, he answered, "Let's hope so," kissed her lightly and released her hands as she turned away and mounted the platform. "Mr. Spock, I'll be minding the store. Take as long as you need to see that our passengers are comfortably settled. No need to check in. We'll be here a while." He glanced at Scotty, manning the console, and Scott nodded wryly. Then, on impulse, Kirk added, "But don't stay for lunch unless they ask you."

Even as he said it, it seemed a bad attempt at a joke. But suddenly, if only for an instant, four humans and one half human were drawn together in a moment of complete understanding, a sharing of gentle, nostalgic amusement. Sutek stared expressionlessly, the epitome of polite patience, unaware that in the minds of his companions, the voices of five different but timelessly similar human mothers were calling down the years: _"Don't stay for lunch unless they ask you."_

Kirk saw Spock smile--not as noticeably as the others were smiling, but a smile nevertheless. "I wouldn't think of it, Captain," he answered, one eyebrow arching. And Kirk thought, _There you go, my friend. That didn't make you one bit less Vulcan, did it?_

Then, abruptly, the moment ended, and Spock and his charges shimmered away into nothing.

When the sound of the transporter had died away, McCoy said testily, "She shouldn't have her molecules spread all over the place." Then, glancing at Kirk: "I mean--nobody should."

"I knew what you meant," Kirk assured him, believing it. They began to walk toward the doorway while Scott spoke with the transporter attendant. "Bones, don't worry about her. She can take care of herself."

"She's so sure she has all her answers," McCoy said, brooding. "Too sure."

"Maybe. But I'm betting on her." Then, grinning: "Did you see Spock when I told him not to stay for lunch?"

"He got it!" McCoy smiled in spite of himself. "By golly, I think we might see the humanization of Mr. Spock yet."

"Ah, noo, Doctor." Scotty joined them and the three of them moved into the corridor together. "If you're lookin' for the day Mr. Spock'll be humanized, you're in for a disappointment. Would it be logical for a body who's half one thing and half t'other to abandon--"

"Logical?"

"Aye." But Scotty's dark eyes were twinkling. "Whatever he may become, that is one leopard that willna change his spots."

  
Eustace George was more than pleased to have Commander Spock stay for lunch. In fact, he insisted on it.

It was not long after their beamdown into the governor's house that Sarah began to sense that he was disturbed about something that had nothing to do with his visitors. He was a slightly overweight man in his early fifties--not one of the original colonists, but a retired Starfleet officer who had been appointed governor-general only a few years before. He had several human aides and a Kiso administrative assistant--tall, broad-chested, coppery-gold, and apparently either sulking or genuinely preoccupied. Sarah was sure that George and the Kiso had had an argument. She tried to ignore the fact that they barely paid attention when she displayed a small genetic synthesizer arm implant--the one piece of specialized equipment that she carried in her shoulder-slung medikit today, anticipating some interest on the part of the governor and his staff.

One of the aides asked a polite question, but no one was really interested. Both Vulcans wore a carefully impassive expression that Sarah knew masked acute boredom. She wondered why the governor did not have her and Sutek shown to their quarters and be done with it. Outside, the air was fresh and mild, and the great mountain, the Black Tower, could be seen in the distance. She would have enjoyed taking an aircar aloft to see what the place looked like....

"Eustace George," the Kiso said in a cold voice that Sarah suspected masked real anger, "the newcomers are eager to get settled, and Commander Spock to return to his ship. I suggest that we adjourn." He rose and turned his back on the room, staring out toward the distant mountain.

His tone, slurred by a faint accent, was both insolent and abrasive. Sarah and the two Vulcans kept their eyes on the middle distance, but George and his aides simply stared at the Kiso's back with a kind of hopeless resignation. Finally, the governor sighed.

"My apologies, Doctors, Commander. I'm afraid you arrived in the middle of a family quarrel." And then, as lunch was served, the governor explained the nature of his disagreement with his assistant, obviously happy to have someone from Starfleet present to give him moral support.

Late the previous afternoon, in violation of the Federation treaty with Kiso, another refugee ship from that planet had landed on Tara. The passengers claimed that the ship had been damaged by a meteorite, and asked permission to remain on the surface until they could make repairs.

" _After_ / they landed," the governor emphasized while his assistant smouldered in silence. "'May I come in' after they were inside the door."

"The ship was inoperable," the Kiso burst out, whirling to face George. His fury was so great that even Spock and Sutek were startled. But oddly enough, George and his aides acted as though the alien were speaking normally. "Even now, they cannot reach the next planet safely unless you permit them to remain longer."

"The famed Kiso temper," the governor said ruefully. He then went on to explain that he had given the refugees one local day to repair their ship and continue on their way, a length of time that his assistant obviously considered inadequate. But the Kiso was not merely angry. He was furious. The very air seemed to vibrate with his fury. And wondering uneasily what it might be like to have a worldful of such tempers unleashed, Sarah began to understand the governor's arbitrary stand against giving the impression of having violated a treaty with them.

"I must insist that they leave this afternoon." He spoke mainly to Spock, and again Sarah sensed that he was seeking Spock's approval. "Even if the ship is dangerous to operate, there are only seventy-eight of them and nearly twemty-three thousnd colonists. I'm responsible for the safety of twenty-three thousand people. I can't risk an atomic war over seventy-eight." But Sarah knew that there was more to it than that. There were several children in the house; she could hear them. "We've worked hard for what we have here," the governor continued. "One of these days Tara will be the most popular Earth colony in this sector. Once we get the bugs out," he added, and then waited expectantly.

The two aides chuckled, and Sarah realized that George had made a local joke.

"Governor George," Spock began, "if the refugees need assistance in repairing their ship--"

"Assistance is being provided, Mr. Spock. We are doing everything humanly possible to facilitate--"

"The 'bugs' will get _you_ out, Eustace George," the Kiso interrupted viciously, as though no one were speaking. His manner suggested a vindictive child bent on revenge, on making the governor as miserable as possible even though there could be no practical value in pursuing the argument. "The Clawed She will infest the Tower with her eggs. And when they hatch--then we shall see if Eustace George is truly a deity or only a mortal after all." And with that parting shot, the young Kiso stomped out of the governor's house.

"Again, my apologies, Dr. Halsted, gentlemen." George's tension had obviously increased at the mention of the Clawed She. "You can see, perhaps, why I do not wish to be involved in a war with these people."

"Governor George," Spock asked, "who or what is the Clawed She?"

If he had intended to distract the man, he succeeded. It became immediately obvious that the animal the livid Kiso had mentioned was viewed by George and his aides as a menace even more threatening than war with the Kiso.

The Clawed She was the Kiso name for the largest insectoid life form on Tara. The human colonists called her the Black Widow, since there appeared to be only one, and she was obviously female. She had appeared in the vicinity of the Tower less than a year before--a huge insect, as long as a man is tall, resembling an enlarged Terran ant. She took no notice of the colonists, and did not threaten them. Her main function was apparently to lay eggs, which she was doing all over the surface of the mountain.

"Has she harmed anyone?" Spock asked as soon as the governor ceased speaking.

"Not yet. But that's not the point." Spock's eyebrows went up, but the governor seemed not to notice. "People who have seen the Tower's surface from a hovercraft say that she's laid thousands of eggs already. If this goes on, we may have to destroy them all or be inundated with thousands of her kind. Not much future for the colony then. But somebody took a shot at her the other day with a blaster. I hear she was pretty badly burned, and she hasn't been seen since. So maybe the problem is solved."

Both Spock and Sutek had stopped eating, and Sarah felt acutely ashamed that she and Eustace George were of the same race. _This_ had once been a Starfleet officer?

"But you said she wasn't hurting anyone," she said aloud, hoping that she had misunderstood the man. "Why did this person shoot her?"

George shrugged. "I don't know. Does it matter? I'm sure it's all for the best."

The two aides both nodded thoughtfully.

There was a moment's silence, and then Spock said quietly, "Governor, I will not be on duty aboard the _Enterprise_ or several hours. May I have the use of a hovercraft?"

"Of course. One of my aides will accompany you."

"That will not be necessary, sir." Commander Spock in impeccable form. Had Sarah not known Vulcans as well as she did, she would have believed that the story of a tortured animal left untended on the mountain was of as little significance to Spock as it was to the governor and his aides. "I believe that Sutek may wish to accompany me." Sutek inclined his head slightly, face inscrutable. "Dr. Halsted?" Spock's eyes met hers, deliberately moved to her medikit and then met her gaze again. She nodded without answering.

Later, as they were about to enter the hovercraft, the governor dismissed his aides and joined Sarah and the two Vulcans.

"I appreciate your concern for the injured animal," he said tightly. "But if you see it, you'll understand why we can't have thousands of those things crawling all over the planet. It's--it's hideous." No answer. "Let be, Spock! If it's dying, let it die."

"We are going sightseeing, Governor."

"Like hell you are." Then George seemed to remember something. "Ah--about that mountain." He hesitated, obviously trying to decide whether it was better to leave well enough alone. "You'll be examining it more closely than the colonists do, and there's a--uh --a place down near the lake line on this side where I--uh--I have some valuable equipment stored. Nobody here knows about it except my family and me. It's--in a cave." He was almost stammering now. What in the universe could the man be up to? "Well, never mind. But if--I'd appreciate it if you'd all avoid mentioning this to anyone else in the colony." Having said that, he looked as though he regretted bringing the matter up.  


  


  
They spent the better part of an hour searching the Tower's surface for any sign of the animal, Sarah feeling guilty the while for thoroughly enjoying the balmy day, the clear green sky above them, and the bottomless lake below. Finally Spock noticed a slight discoloration on the mountain's surface, almost a trail leading down, down and around to a point slightly above the lake line. Here a hole had been cut in the rock and the cut-out section wedged back for a door. The door, obviously manmade, was partially open, wide enough for an animal the size of a man to have passed through it into the mountain.

"Governor George's 'valuable equipment' cache," Sarah suggested as their craft hovered near a small ledge just outside the cave's entrance. "I wonder what he's up to."

Spock did not dignify her speculation with an answer, but continued to take tricorder readings of the cave entrance and the wounded animal's trail leading to it. But Sutek remarked politely that it was useless to speculate on what the governor's equipment might be.

"I know. But I can't help wondering. He didn't act as though it were illegal, but he still didn't want anyone here to know about it."

Spock asked Sutek to take control of the hovercraft and hold its position next to the ledge. "By all indications, the creature is in the cave, unless she has died there. Dr. Halsted, please come with me to the cave entrance, but no further. If I find the animal and deem it safe for you to enter to treat her, I should like to be able to communicate with you without raising my voice."

He approached the heavy black door carefully, phaser in hand. Sarah, standing just outside, saw him pause, glance around, and then move into the cave as though it were a small room, easily examined.

"She's not there?" she asked, feeling reluctant relief.

"Affirmative. There is evidence that she was here and tunneled out, however." He paused, and took a step further into the cave. "Fascinating," he said softly.

"What is it?" Sarah and Sutek asked together.

"The cave appears to be fully equipped living quarters for four or five people--the governor-general and his family, I should think. With the door in place, the occupants would be shielded quite effectively from the deposition of radioactive particles following upon the detonation of an atomic warhead."

"You mean it's the governor's private fallout shelter, just in case." And propelled by nothing more than curiosity, Sarah moved forward into the cave entrance.

  
"Are you sure?" Kirk was asking tensely over the intercom. DeVecchio was a good man--one of Spock's more promising trainees for backup science officer. But Kirk was in the midst of phaser maintenance inspection with Scotty, and he did not like to be off the bridge if there was even a minor crisis developing. He and the crew had been briefed on the Kiso, and he did not particularly trust them.

"Yes, sir. It's a Kiso ship all right. Small, fast--they were doing warp six before they went into orbit."

"What orbit?"

"Synchronous orbit, sir. Right over Tower City."

"I'm on my way. Tell Uhura I want to talk to the captain of that ship. Kirk out." He turned to Scotty, forgetting to turn off the intercom. Something was about to go very wrong. He felt it in his gut. "Scotty, get those phasers op--"

"Captain!"

He heard DeVecchio's cry over the intercom--a young officer, surprised, horrified, momentarily unable to continue.

"Report, mister!"

"They've fired a SPASM, sir! At Tower City. It--it's armed. Impact in ten seconds."

The captain and the chief engineer stared at each other in horror, knowing that it would take at least ten times ten seconds to make the phaser banks operational.

  


It was immediately obvious to Sarah that Spock was as curious as she was about the governor's "valuable equipment." She stepped into the cave, expecting him to object. But his attention was wholly absorbed in examining a shoulder-high apparatus that Sarah judged to be an air purifier. Glancing around (canned goods, clothing, bedding--and were those parlor games?), she utterly failed to remember T'Loreth's advice until too late.

"I wonder--," she began, and stopped in dismay. She had been standing less than half a meter behind Spock when she began to speak, and he had started as violently as had Sutek and the boy Simon on the day of Kirk's visit to Salk Memorial. "Oh, God--I'm sorry. I should have--

"Doctor," he snapped, "you will remove yourself immediately." Now in a little more control: "I must insist--"

"Is that an order, Mr. Spock?" She knew that, startled as he had been, he had spoken more sharply than he had intended. But she was irritated nevertheless. And so she walked past him, farther into the cave, moved by nothing more than a momentary contrariness.

That momentary contrariness and its cause would save both their lives--just as Spock's next admonition would save their eyesight.

When she stopped suddenly at the sight of a gaping tunnel-entrance in the cave's rear wall, he approached her purposefully, pointing toward the hole.

"Look," he said. And they both looked--facing away from the half-open door, and standing slightly out of line with it. "A wounded animal dug that tunnel. She may still be in the vicinity. Doctor, I must insist--"

Light. Everything was made of blazing white light. What had a moment before been a gaping hole was--

"Protect your eyes!"

As she pressed her hands to her already closed lids, she felt herself knocked against the wall and shielded there from the coming shock wave by the wall itself and by her companion's body.

There were burning shapes behind her eyelids. White and black, they all burned the same.

And she thought: Sutek. Outside. Looking toward...?

For a moment it seemed as though the universe itself stood absolutely still. Then, just before the shock wave hit them, she thought: _the baby_.

  


A direct hit.

In the moment before he again became captain of the _Enterprise_ , James Kirk the man could not make his thoughts straighten out. They kept going in a circle, repeating the same fragment of conversation over and over.

 _"Don't stay for lunch unless they ask you."_

 _"I wouldn't think of it, Captain...."_

  


"Close the door!" Sarah's fingers clawed at it, and several of her nails broke. But she did not notice. They universe was now gray, without color; her lips were dry and her teeth were grinding on blown grit and dirt. But the baby. The baby. "Help me close it!" She knew that she would have been screaming had her throat not been full of dust.

Spock pulled her away from the door. "Sutek is out there!"

"I can't expose myself to radiation!" She knew she was hysterical, but she could not stop herself. "Help me!"

Spock stared at her--in disbelief and uncontrolled contempt--out of a face that looked dead. _Do I look like that?_ she wondered. _Are we really alive?_

"Very well, Doctor. Remain here, then. I shall endeavor to bring the patient to the physician rather than--"

"I'm pregnant." She sobbed inwardly at this tearing asunder of her privacy. But let no one think that she would lightly betray her oath.

He had begun to leave the cave as he spoke. Now he froze for an instant, his back to her. Then, without looking around, he left the cave, pushing the heavy door closed behind him.

The door was a work of art, carefully balanced so that it would revolve open or closed at a touch, but so completely airtight that no light could enter around it. As the cave was plunged into darkness, a scream rose in Sarah's throat. But she fought it back, her broken fingernails biting into the palms of her hands. She had had her moment of hysteria, but she would not permit herself another.

As she fought the panic, she began to realize that the cave was not completely dark. The walls glowed faintly, as though phosphorescent. In that very faint light she could see the shadows of the supplies and equipment that the governor and his family had laid away against this day. But apparently they had expected some warning.

She bowed her head, tearless, but remembering the children's voices she had heard as she and Spock and Sutek....

 _"Don't stay for lunch...."_

Reality slipped and slid out of focus. But she raised her head, got up from where she had fallen to her knees beside the door, and began to look for a portable light by means of which to examine Sutek. The monstrous truth of their situation was already being stored in one compartment of her mind, partially sealed by self-preservation and the need to retain emotional balance. For it was more than obvious to her that, even if they could escape the effects of radioactive fallout, it was highly probable that the crew of the _Enterprise_ would have no way of knowing that she and her two companions had survived the holocaust of Tower City.

She had not yet been able to locate a portable torch when the door opened once again. Two figures, one supporting the other, were briefly silhouetted against a smudge of gray daylight. (But the sun was shining, she thought in despair. It was such a beautiful day.) Then the door closed, and Spock paused a moment, still half-supporting Sutek, his free hand reaching toward the line where the door fitted against the wall. The was no visible crack, yet he ran his fingers deftly along where a crack would have been--testing, probing. Then, apparently satisfied, he turned his attention to Sutek, gently guiding him to sit on the cave floor, his back against the wall.

Trying not to dwell on the fact that the daylight she had just seen might be the last she would ever see, Sarah started toward Sutek, slipping her medikit from her shoulder, straining to see him in the faint phosphorescence.

"Doctor Halsted."

Spock's tone was calm, but demanding of her attention. Puzzled, Sarah reluctantly turned her attention from Sutek; he had, to her great relief, apparently received only a few superficial burns about the face and seemed to be in the light trance.

"Yes?"

"The radiation level immediately outside is not now above what it was at the time of our entrance, but I anticipate that it will begin to rise very shortly." Still, he had activated his tricorder, and was making another pass over the non existent crack between the door and the wall. "The tricorder readings I took outside indicate that a thirty-five to forty megaton atomic explosion was detonated three point four minutes ago. Ground zero was Tower City. The device was not thermonuclear. Hence I calculate the probability at 3.6 percent that we shall experience any long-term stratospheric fallout." Although all of the information was crucial to their survival, the sheer volume of words gave Sarah the irrational impression that he was babbling. In one small part of her mind, she wondered if excess verbiage might be some sort of safety valve that permitted him to establish control. "However, local and tropospheric fallout will render the planet's surface uninhabitable at this latitude for approximately one point five standard months. Unless my heretofore unsuccessful attempts to establish contact with the _Enterprise_ become successful, it will be necessary that we remain in this cave for between two and three standard months." The rapid fire of information ceased abruptly, and he shut off the tricorder and turned to face her. "We're safe here," he finished quietly, almost gently. "All of us. Please don't worry."

The sudden change in tone, together with the simple but pointed reassurance, caught Sarah by surprise. Tears came to her eyes, but she blinked them away easily enough. "Thank you, Mr. Spock. I know you realize how much that means to me. But are you sure you can't reach the _Enterprise_?"

"Even outside, the interference is too great. Here within the mountain, metallic ores create additional barriers." For a moment he looked haggard, almost old, in the faint light. "I shall make another attempt shortly, however. Do you require assistance?"

"Just some light."

Spock produced a small capsule, laid it on the topmost carton in a pile nearby, and struck it with the handle of his phaser. As he was in the act of doing this, Sarah turned to Sutek once more.

In the quick flare of light as the harmless flame leaped toward the cave ceiling, she saw that his skin was indeed discolored in places by greenish blotches that were the Vulcan equivalent of a moderately severe sunburn--no doubt painful, but eminently treatable. Yet his reaction to the light made her realize with despair that as they entered the cave, Spock had not been supporting him, but leading him.

For the Vulcan did not so much as blink when the light flared close beside him, and his pupils remained large and unchanging as the flame grew brighter.

"Are you there, Sarah?" he asked softly as she drew closer. But unlike a human, he did not raise his hand to try to touch her.

Unable to answer, she took his hand in both of hers and pressed it wordlessly. In the silence, she could hear Spock's doggedly persistent: "Spock to _Enterprise_. Acknowledge, _Enterprise_. Spock to _Enterprise_...."

"They're gone," she said tonelessly. Laying Sutek's hand gently aside, she took up her medikit and began to examine her patient.

  
The admiral's somber face almost filled the bridge viewscreen. He had just informed Kirk that the president of the Federation Council had called an emergency session to convene within the hour--by means of subspace radio, since the council members were spread across half the galaxy on their home planets. The purpose of the session was to decide what action should be taken against the Kiso for the destruction of a Federation colony. "The problem," the admiral was saying, "is that the Kiso claim that a refugee ship from their planet landed on Tara yesterday afternoon, local time. If that's true, Tara was theoretically in violation of the treaty. Captain, do you know anything about this alleged violation?"

"No, sir." Kirk's answer was clipped, and his voice cold. "But if I may say so, sir, twenty-three thousand lives is a high price to demand for a treaty violation."

"Undoubtedly. Undoubtedly. No one denies that, Captain. But the Council wishes to have all available evidence presented. Please be prepared to testify via subspace radio in two hours concerning the incident you witnessed." He paused, hesitating. "Are you sure there are no survivors?"

"Our sensors are unable to function within a hundred kilometers of ground zero," Kirk answered tightly. "It was a very dirty bomb--crude, archaic, but highly effective."

"A Centaurus Hiroshima," said the admiral, who was human.

"Yes, sir."

"Captain Kirk--" Again the admiral hesitated. James Kirk stared straight ahead, as did Scotty, who stood at his left. The rest of the bridge crew bowed their heads or looked away. "No one blames you or your engineer for this. Deep in Federation territory, surrounded by known worlds, barely a parsec from a well-traveled space lane--no one could have foreseen that you would have to phaser an armed SPASM literally at a moment's notice."

"I suppose not," Kirk said softly. "Sir. Thank you, sir."

"And--ah--my sympathy to you and your crew for the loss of your first officer."

"Thank you, sir."

The admiral signed off, and the screen went blank. There was a moment of silence, and then Kirk said quietly, "One more pass, Mr. Sulu."

"Yes, sir." It was only a whisper. Somehow, it was almost like the times that the captain had berated them all for thinking him incompetent when he was--through no fault of his own. But he was not berating them now. He was deadly calm. And that was much worse, although none of them could have explained why.

"Mr. DeVecchio, full sensor scan."

"Yes, sir."

There was another silence as McCoy, looking as though he had aged ten years in the last hour, moved toward the command chair, having waited near the lift while the admiral was speaking. "Jim." He rested his hand on Kirk's shoulder. "There's nothing down there but a maelstrom of heat and radioactivity."

"I know that," Kirk answered. "Intellectually."

"What?"

"Nothing, Bones. It's nothing I can explain--" A brief, painful smile. "Logically. It's probably a hallucination."

"What is?"

Kirk glanced up at him as though he were going to answer. But instead, he gave McCoy a long, searching look. "You don't feel it, do you."

"Jim, what in the name of--"

Kirk shook his head and sighed. "Nothing. Mr. DeVecchio, report."

"Sensor scan yields no new information, sir."

"Lieutenant?"

"Nothing, sir," Uhura whispered.

At last, Sulu said quietly, "Orbit completed, Captain."

The silence was heavy with tension. But Kirk finally said, with infinite fatigue in his voice, "Take her out, then. Warp two." It seemed to McCoy that the bridge crew drew a silent sigh of relief as the captain rose from his chair, looking--for the first time since the tragedy--like a man who had lost his best friend. "Mr. Scott, you have the con."

As he and McCoy rode the lift, Kirk said distractedly, "I'll have to make Scotty acting first officer."

"Acting?" McCoy turned abruptly to face him. But it was McCoy who looked away first. "Jim, get some rest."

"He's not dead, Bones. Somewhere down there--"

"That's insane!"

"That's exactly what Starfleet will say when I tell them I want to come back here after the radiation dissipates."

"The entire population of Tower City was vaporized!"

"I know."

"Spock couldn't possibly have--"

"I know." He touched McCoy's arm lightly in parting. "Don't worry. If it's a hallucination, it'll go away." The lift doors opened and he moved toward his quarters, leaving McCoy staring after him, much more disturbed than he would have been had Kirk been his usual single-minded, authoritative self.

  
When Spock closed his communicator once more, and apparently for good, Sarah looked up for a moment from her examination. Their gaze held in silence, and then Spock shifted his eyes to Sutek and back again. Sarah shook her head and looked away.

"Both retinas are severely burned," Sutek said softly, almost as though he had seen the exchange. "The damage is irreversible, is it not, Sarah?"

"Yes," she answered, still not looking at Spock. "I'd hoped that your inner eyelids had protected you, but--they didn't."

"One hopes only in the absence of certain knowledge." Sutek sounded calm, but Sarah knew he was in shock rather than controlling. "I was looking directly at Tower City when...." His voice trailed off, and neither of the others seemed able to comment. Then Sutek rested his head against the wall behind him and closed his eyes. "Spock," he said very softly, "help me now."

It was apparently neither a command nor a request, but uttered as though Sutek were simply stating _Now is the time_. Sarah moved away, but Spock had already knelt next to Sutek on his other side, placing his hand along the side of Sutek's head. They both became quite still, faces almost in repose but unmoving, as though carved from the finest marble, their angular planes casting sharply defined shadows in the light of the flame.

Sarah watched in silence, sensing that Spock was giving Sutek a kind of help that she, a human, could probably not comprehend, let alone provide. Was it only intellectual, she wondered. Or perhaps something else--something like what a human would call emotional support? Even though no Vulcan would ever....

She never knew why she turned just then--turned toward the tunnel opening and looked into two many-faceted eyes, each a hundred times the area of her own.

She and the gigantic insect stared at each other in total silence. The animal was indeed as long as a human adult is tall, and indeed much like an ant. In the light of the flame, Sarah could clearly see the head from which two long, incredibly thin antennae waved; the wingless thorax from which grew the six relatively slender legs of a walking insect; the wide, shining abdomen. But there was a difference, and even in her awe, Sarah was aware of it immediately: the animal's legs were not as slender proportionately as those of a Terran insect, and appeared to contain actual muscular tissue and even skeletal material. Still, the body was plano-convex, testifying to the fact that this great creature moulted and grew another integument lying down. The animal's brain, judging by the size of the head, was larger than Sarah's.

"Spock," she whispered, expecting no answer. If the animal had come too silently for her to hear it, surely the two Vulcans would be oblivious to its presence.

"Speak softly." The answer was no louder than Sarah had spoken. "The creature is apparently neither frightened nor hostile at the moment." There was a pause, and then she heard Spock give a brief but accurate description of the creature in Vulcan, adding that the brain size indicated the possibility of memory storage and comparison--the basis of plastic behavior as differentiated from the rigidly instinctive behavior characteristic of Terran and Vulcan insectoid life. Then, after a moment, Spock added in Standard: "Interesting that she does not appear injured."

It was true. The animal's dark brown integument was uniformly shiny and unbroken, and her various appendages apparently undamaged. What had Eustace George said--that the creature was burned by a blaster last week?

"She doesn't have claws either," Sarah murmured. "And she's not black. Could this be another life form?"

If Spock had been about to answer, she never heard him. At that moment, the creature moved slightly farther into the cave, apparently ignoring Sarah but extending her antennae toward the two Vulcans. There was a moment's silence, and then Sutek, who had been half reclining, suddenly pulled himself to a sitting position, his sightless eyes staring emptily, but the rest of his senses obviously trained on the creature.

"What's happening?" Sarah kept her voice hushed with an effort. For the first time since their visitor appeared, the thought crossed her mind that she ought to be terrified. But she could only feel a growing excitement.

"I believe," Spock answered softly, "that the creature wishes to communicate with Sutek." He was, as his voice conveyed, as completely without fear as she was. Like Sutek's, his expression was one of total--almost joyful--concentration. But unlike Sutek's, his eyes were alive.

"How do you know?" Sarah was filled with an unaccountable certainty that the creature meant them no harm. But _communicate_?

There was no answer. But watching the two Vulcans, Sarah thought she knew the answer anyway. They were both quite obviously listening to something that she could not hear. The insect made no sound that Sarah could discern other than a faint rustle--as of dry leaves--when she moved.

Spock had dropped to his knees when he originally went to tend Sutek, and Sutek had by now pulled himself up to a similar position so that both their heads were about on a level with the insect's head. She had paused far enough away from them so that her antennae did not quite touch them, but waved a few inches from their foreheads, almost as though she were asking permission for further contact.

After a few moments of total silence, Spock began to talk very softly, and after another second or two, Sarah realized that he was talking to her, attempting to keep her informed on what was happening.

"The creature has the intelligence of a very young human child--perhaps three or four years of age." He sounded vaguely disappointed here, almost as though some preconception had led him to expect more. "I am unable to determine why she is alone here--whether the other adults died naturally or met with an accident."

"It's paraverbal telepathy?"

"Affirmative. I have attempted to warn her of the danger of radioactive fallout, but she does not understand."

He fell silent again, and remained so for some time. But Sarah sensed that he was not as deeply _en rapport_ with the creature as Sutek was. Several times Spock glanced in Sutek's direction, while Sutek did not seem aware of Spock's presence, let alone Sarah's. She began to wonder if he were again in a trance, but when Spock said a few words to him in Vulcan, he responded immediately.

Spock had asked a question, roughly and idiomatically translated: "Do you want to give it a try?" And Sutek's answer, again freely translated: "What have I got to lose?"

"What's happening?" Sarah asked again. But this time neither of them answered her.

Spock rose and silently moved a few steps away. The insect then moved closer to Sutek, slowly reached out with its holding maxillae and touched Sutek lightly on either side of his head.

Sarah repressed a violent shudder. She knew that the animal would not harm Sutek--although she did not know how she knew. And so she remained as immobile as Spock was, watching in complete fascination as the creature continued to hold Sutek's head lightly--and with complete incredulity as Sutek's burns began to fade.

Slowly, slowly, but under their very eyes, the green blotches were beginning to disappear.

The creature had moved past Sarah to reach Sutek, and was still facing away from her. So Sarah was able to see Sutek's face full on--as was Spock, who had moved silently to a position corresponding to Sarah's but on the opposite side of the insect's body.

Sutek's eyes had been open all along, but blank, empty, unresponsive. Then, suddenly, he was looking directly at the insect's face, only a few feet from his. Both Spock and Sarah saw the eyes focus and then widen for just a moment in shock and terror. But Sutek was a Vulcan, and his control was almost immediate, mitigating the effects of seeing the creature for the first time at such close range. Yet he could not entirely control the joy of having sight once again. It shone in his dark eyes as they shifted first to Spock and then to Sarah. His half-smiling lips seemed about to form her name.

And then, nothing.

There was nothing behind those eyes at all. Not sight. Not intelligence. Not even life. It was as though she were looking into skull sockets a billion light years deep. And the scream that burst from Sutek's throat in instant before he ceased to live was cut off, hanging in the air, echoing.

"Don't move."

In the rustle of the creature's panic, Spock's words were almost inaudible. But Sarah heard them and stood absolutely still, sure that all of them would be dead in a moment and almost welcoming the prospect of that release from a life that seemed to be pouring horror upon horror.

"Look at her." Again, Spock. "She doesn't know what happened to him either. _Look at her_."

Fighting panic, Sarah looked. The creature, her antennae waving aimlessly, was backing away from Sutek, now a limp form huddled on the cave floor. For a moment one glistening compound eye seemed to focus on Sarah, almost pleadingly. Or perhaps in terror--fear of retaliation?

"Don't move," Spock repeated. "If we startle her, she may attack. But I do not believe she will attack unless provoked."

They waited in rigid silence while the creature backed away into the tunnel, its antennae still waving as though in panic. Again one eye seemed to search Sarah's face, and she had the distinct impression that the creature was every bit as terrified as she was, and as confused.

As soon as the frightened rustle died away, both of them made for Sutek.

He was dead, according to every reading on Sarah's medical scanner. Yet there were neither burns nor scars on his face. And the scanner, even after careful adjustment, also indicated that both retinas were intact.

The only thing it refused to indicate was the cause of death. For Sutek--a healthy Vulcan male in the human equivalent of late adolescence--had apparently simply stopped breathing.

  
Sarah sat on the floor next to Sutek's body, her knees drawn up and her forehead resting on them. She was aware that Spock sat opposite her, on the other side of the body--cross-legged, meditating. Her own state was somewhat similar: for these few moments at least, she did not think in any coherent way, but simply drifted between consciousness and a light doze, wishing she need not think at all. But then, after her mind began to work again in spite of everything, she raised her head and looked down at Sutek's face.

Spock had closed the Vulcan's eyes, and in the flickering light of the flame, he appeared asleep.

 _You would understand, wouldn't you, my friend?_ she thought. _You were a scientist, and a Vulcan. Would it be logical for us to try to keep alive here without trying to find out what killed you?_

She knew the answer. But she was not Vulcan. And so she dreaded what she knew must be done.

When Spock roused himself, she said, not moving: "I'm glad you're a Vulcan too."

"Indeed?" His voice sounded tired, and his eyebrows barely rose.

"I know I don't have to explain to you what our next step is--logically. But humans have...emotional attitudes about autopsies."

"And you?"

"He was my friend." Silence. "Or maybe you don't know what that means?" Silence. "I'm sorry," she said finally. "Let's get on with it."

Half an hour later, she found that she could not watch as Spock vaporized what remained of Sutek with his phaser. And the fact that they had, in half an hour, discovered nothing new about the cause of Sutek's death did not help her state of mind. No internal injuries. No foreign substances in the body. But....

Still unable to comprehend, she reviewed again the incredible evidence she and Spock had seen with their own eyes: Sutek's retinas were not only intact, but totally free of scar tissue. Literally as good as new. As though they had never been burned.

"He looked at me," she said softly, feeling as though she were repeating an incantation. "He saw me. Just before he screamed."

"Doctor --" She turned and saw that Spock was watching her with a faint frown. "There are several varieties of Thermocan foods among our supplies. I suggest that the logical thing for you to do at the moment is to eat and rest."

"What about you?"

"I," Spock replied, "am not pregnant." Then, as Sarah turned to stare at his back, he moved toward the tunnel. "It is also necessary that I block this entrance, since we do not know whether it leads outside. I have my work cut out for me. You have done yours. I therefore suggest that we discuss the reasons for Sutek's death while you are sitting down. Do you have any objections?"

Sarah opened her mouth, discovered that she had no objections, closed it again, and went to get herself a Thermocan of chicken broth.

  
Eustace George had been a planner, and very thorough in taking every precaution to ensure the safety of his family in the event of their incarceration in the shelter. A water tank--apparently originally a domestic hot water heater--contained enough flat-tasting but untainted water to last five people for several weeks, and more than enough to keep Sarah and Spock for the month and a half that he anticipated. A variety of canned goods, many of them an Earth-made self-heating brand called Thermocan, lined the shelves in one of the two metal cabinets in the room. The other contained children's clothing, blankets, and four identical outfits that made Sarah suspect that the governor and his wife had been about the same size: canvas-like pants and shapeless sweaters, both far too wide at the shoulders and short in the limbs for either Sarah or Spock to wear them comfortably. But she donned one of the sweaters gratefully. The outfit she wore had been intended for traveling and was practically styled and comfortable, but not heavy. And it was damp in the cave.

She sat drinking her soup, watching Spock taking inventory of their supplies. The flame still burned brightly, and he had discovered several fully charged Permalites in one of the cupboards, along with first aid equipment that would supplement Sarah's medical kit.

"Whatever she did," she was saying as he discovered and began to examine a good-sized hotstone, "she did it like a laser. None of the surrounding tissues were even touched. She was totally selective."

"Her powers are apparently much more sophisticated than her level of intelligence would suggest."

"You said a three-year-old child."

"An approximation only. The creature's powers of conceptualization are not complex. She was able to communicate telepathically with both Sutek and me without physical contact, but I do not believe that she grasped even the rudiments of the concept of radioactive fallout, and may even now be outside the mountain." He glanced at the pile of phaser-fused rock that covered the tunnel entrance with an airtight seal.

"The month and a half that you said we'd be in here--that was an approximation too?"

He had begun to inspect the cooking unit again, even though he had already given it a thorough inspection. "I believe," he said carefully, "that I said that tropospheric fallout would continue for as long as a month and a half. I estimated the duration of our stay in this shelter as two or three months."

"Just to be on the safe side, you mean."

"Indeed."

"Because of the baby."

"Primarily. We could also suffer genetic damage." Not looking at her, he returned the hotstone to its storage compartment and began to rearrange the canned goods, still with his back to her. He seemed more tense since they had begun to discuss the fallout again, and certainly with reason. In her concern about the child she now carried, she had not until now thought to consider the implications of their situation for children that either of them might have in the future. But Spock was a Vulcan, and Vulcans did not think in short-range terms--

"The captain would have married you."

For the second time in a few minutes, Sarah found herself staring at his back. Then she mentally reversed herself to the point at which his thoughts had obviously diverged from hers. Having done that, she leaned her forehead against the still-warm soup can in her hand. _Here we go again._ Yet she found it rather touching that Jim Kirk's friends had so much confidence in him.

"I did not wish to marry the captain, Mr. Spock," she said gently, drained the last of the broth, set the can aside and hugged her knees once again, resting her forehead on them. Spock went on sorting cans. Vulcans might control, she thought ruefully, but when one disapproved of you, you knew it. "Oh, come on," she said a bit irritably, and then sighed. "Just my luck to do the Robinson Crusoe bit with the prim and proper Vulcan."

"I have been called many things, Doctor, but never--" articulating precisely "--'prim and proper.'" There was something a little plaintive in his tone, and also a faint touch of amusement. But he did not turn from his sorting.

  
Their day--or what they calculated as a day--was almost over before they again spoke about themselves.

The supplies indeed included parlor games, and several sets of playing cards. After they had had a small evening meal only to discover that neither of them was tired enough to sleep, Spock reluctantly agreed to a game of gin rummy after Sarah firmly vetoed chess.

She dealt the cards as they sat facing each other on the floor, now wearing over their own clothing two of the shapeless sweaters, the sleeves ending halfway down Spock's arms and barely reaching Sarah's wrists. As she finished dealing, she remarked on how silly they looked, giggled, and then found herself sobbing. Throwing the cards aside, she hugged her knees once more and buried her face against them. Fear and despair seemed to choke her, and the crying seemed endless--all the tears that she had not shed for the thousands who had died that day, for the friend she had lost, and in memory of her wrecked life and that of her child. She cried until there were no more tears left, all the time growing more and more aware of the silent Other who waited patiently for the storm to clear--simply there, quiet and solid and real, between her and total isolation.

When it was over, she wiped her face, blew her nose, and said shakily, "Well, that takes care of that, I guess." She drew a deep breath and picked up her cards. "At least the baby won't have to be born in here in the dark." Her voice broke on the last word, but there were no more tears to shed today.

They played in silence for a few moments, but she knew his mind was not on the game and was not surprised when he asked quietly, "Were you going to destroy the child?"

 _None of your damn business._ But it was only a thought, and not a very vigorous one. They were stuck with one another, would probably die without seeing another living soul other than her child, and such conditions could not but militate against reticence. He had already asked a question that no Vulcan would ask of a mere acquaintance, and she saw no reason not to answer it. "No. I was going to keep him."

"There is a probability of 51.03 percent," he informed her expressionlessly, "that 'he' is a 'she.'"

"Yes. Well--" But whatever she had been going to say seemed to drift away. This child she had not chosen to conceive but had chosen to keep would be a boy or a girl--a fundamental individuating concept that she had not thought of consciously until this minute. _This is a person, just like me._ The thought was obscurely comforting, even joyful.

She realized that Spock had been watching her expression change and then looked away, obviously moved and trying to control it.

"What's wrong?"

"You look...different when you're happy." He rose abruptly, laying his cards on the pile. "I regret, Doctor, that gin rummy is not my game." He was obviously trying to speak lightly rather than rudely, and in the main succeeding. But he moved restlessly away toward the rock pile guarding the tunnel entrance and began to examine it intently, his back to her once again.

"I remind you of someone." It was not really a question, for she expected that he would not answer.

At first he did not. But then he said quietly, "That was long ago. Longer than you would believe." His tone touched her deeply, for it spoke of profound sadness coupled with profound resignation. Impatiently, she wished that she had left well enough alone.

"Spock," she said with mock gravity, "I want to tell you something. Promise you won't laugh?"

The effect she had sought was almost instantaneous. He turned, full of half Vulcan consternation. "Laugh?"

 _Beautiful._ "I always wished that my name was Jill instead of Sarah."

For a moment she wondered if some of the early Vulcans had been pixies. "As in 'Jack and'?"

"No, no--nothing to do with that. Sarah is such a dull-sounding name, but Jill is...well, an interesting name." Oh-oh.

"Interesting?"

"Not 'interesting.' _Interesting._ Oh, never mind." But he was almost smiling. Almost. "Well, at least you didn't laugh."

"You asked me not to." Still, almost smiling.

  
She had no sense of what time it was when they finally lay down for the night, wrapped in two of Eustace George's sleeping bags against the dampness of the cave. Her chronometer said it was mid-evening, Tara time. But her internal time sense was in chaos.

The cave was dark now except for the soft fungus-like glow on the rocks. The tunnel entrance was securely blocked, and Spock's tricorder had detected no other life forms in the area. But still she could not sleep.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, she spoke aloud. "What could make a Vulcan scream like that?"

She caught her breath, now certain that her intuition had misled her and Spock was asleep. He had made no sound and no movement for hours. Or could it only be moments....

"I do not know," he answered immediately. "But--sleep now. It will soon be morning."

"Morning," she repeated softly, almost mockingly. But not quite. She knew that there were things they would have to do to preserve their hold on reality.

"We must keep to the days."

"I know." And she thought, _We'll have to make marks or something, so we know how long it's been._

And then she thought, _She won't be born in the dark, though._

And then she was asleep--frightened, heartsick, disoriented, but able to sleep anyway because she was not alone.

  


  



	2. Home Before Home

### Home Before Home: Their First Summer

They came out of hibernation in a misty early spring rain, blinking in the gray natural light and shivering a little, feeling shaved of their winter pelts. The sweaters and pants they had worn for three months lay in two piles on the damp floor of the cave. Spock was again in uniform, although his Starfleet-issue shirt and pants looked as though they had been cycled for a man who outweighed him by a dozen pounds. Sarah wore her travel jumpsuit, slightly stretched across breasts and belly, flapping everywhere else. Her shoes felt tight too, but looking up at real sky for the first time, she forgot about shoes. The wind was damp and cool, and even Spock was shivering a little. Above them, at last, was open sky. 

They stood on the black rock shelf outside the cave, simply breathing. Spock had used the tricorder as soon as he cracked the door open, but now its warbling was silent. Sarah did not ask him if the radiation level was safe; she knew that he would not have allowed her outside the cave if it wasn't. Three months alone with him had taught her that unnecessary questions didn't get answers. Instead she said, "It smells wonderful," and accepted his silence as the heartfelt assent she knew he could not express in words. 

After a time she said, "Let's go for a ride." 

The hovercraft still sat on the ledge. And a good thing, she thought. It was difficult to imagine how they would have climbed down the Tower from this height. 

He did not answer, but moved toward the vehicle and inspected it visually and with the tricorder, and then motioned her into it. Taking off, she experienced a moment of vertigo; she had never liked heights, and the valley floor and Tower's Ring seemed very far below--the one brown and sodden after weeks of winter rains, the other reflecting a woolly sky instead of the pale green one Sarah remembered so vividly from the day of the holocaust. As Spock steered the craft around the Tower, she made herself look down at the world. Spock showed no inclination to view the remains of Tower City even though they both knew it was near enough, and she was grateful. Later they would have to look at it and come to terms with it. But now they were free, more free than they had been in months. That was all she cared to think about at the moment-- 

"My _God!_ " she gasped. "Is that a _house_ down there?" 

Looking down through the silvery curtain of light drizzle, she could make out the shape of a building near the beach that divided the lake from the surrounding forest. As Spock brought the craft lower she studied the structure intently, feeling her pulse race even as it once had when, as a child, she had spied a small, bright coin in the dirt at the edge of the pavement during a walk in a park. The building was indeed bright in comparison with its surroundings. Even in the rain, or perhaps because of it, the sides and roof looked smooth and shiny. Around it someone had planted a row of saplings, now trembling and bowing in the damp wind. There were two much smaller structures close by: one made of the same material as the larger building, the other of what appeared to be transparent aluminum. 

"Fascinating." It was the first time Spock had made a sound since they had left the cave. Even in her excitement, Sarah was relieved to hear him speak at last. "They are porto-structures." 

"Why would somebody build something out here? They could bubble it up faster and a lot cheaper." 

"I do not know," he answered, sounding as though he did. But then, he always sounded that way, she thought, even when he didn't know diddly-squat. 

"You don't suppose...." She left the question unfinished, not daring to voice her hope. 

"Anyone who was not protected as we were would have long since died," Spock said flatly. He landed the craft on the beach just as a trickle of watery sunlight ventured through the clouds. Before them, the front of the porto gleamed slick in the faint sunlight. The structure was only one story high, although the roof came to a shallow peak. In the middle of the right-hand slope, an apparently hollow rectangle with no purpose that Sarah could divine projected upward toward the sky. The windows were shuttered and the door appeared to be firmly closed, perhaps even locked. "Remain here." 

"But--" 

He jumped lightly to the ground and spun to face her in one continuous motion. " _Remain here._ " His gaze locked with hers. So seldom had their eyes met during their time in the cave that she was startled by the blackness of his. Or could he be angry? 

"Don't give me orders," she said, her voice firm but with no particular emphasis. "I am not one of your crew." 

"I will not debate with you. Remain here." And turning on his heel, he walked rapidly toward the porto. 

_My name is Sarah,_ she thought, shivering once more. _My name is Sarah, damn you._ But even in her thoughts she could not muster much irritation toward him anymore. Taciturn, uncommunicative, occasionally even sullen, he had helped her through the worst three months of her life, showing at times an impersonal but ongoing kindness that she had grown to appreciate more than she resented his detachment. Yet as the days and weeks passed, she had become more and more aware that he had never once called her by her given name.... 

The door had opened at a touch, and he now stood in the doorway, scanning with his tricorder. Finally, when she was almost unable to bear her newly aroused excitement and curiosity, he said, "Come, then." The warbling ceased and he stepped inside. 

She scrambled out of the craft and stumbled in the soft white sand, mud-gray now from the rain. Muttering, "The hell with it," she kicked off the uncomfortable shoes and ran across the sand, loving the feel of something besides stone floor against her feet. Crossing the narrow porch that ran the width of the front of the building, she paused in the doorway. Spock was standing just inside, looking around. But the shuttered windows admitted none of the dull afternoon outside, and she could see very little of the room. 

"Aren't there any lights?" Dumb question. If there were lights, they would have gone on as soon as Spock stepped inside. 

He stood still for a moment longer, frowning slightly, apparently trying to remember something. Then he reached toward the wall beside the door. There was a faint click, and a bright globe appeared in the middle of the ceiling. 

"What's _that?_ " she blurted. 

"That," he answered, "is an incandescent bulb." 

"Electricity?" 

"Indeed. The tricorder revealed the presence of a functioning solar generator at the rear of this structure." He pointed to the opposite wall of the room in which they stood. Looking in the direction he was pointing, she nodded absently and then caught her breath in delight. 

In the few moments since she had entered the room, she had been subliminally aware that the whole place had an odd feel to it, as though everything in it were identifiable and yet different enough from what she had expected to appear marginally unfamiliar. The furniture looked serviceable, even comfortable, yet bulky and squared off, with little or no attempt of the part of its makers to conform to bodily contours. On a table to her left was a box-like object which at first glance she took to be a computer. But next to the darkened screen were three oddly placed knobs with worn legends underneath them, one of which read, "On-Off-Vol." Primitive holo imager? There was no chair pushed under the table; instead, there was a cabinet there, on top of which was another box, black this time, a flat rectangular cube the width of the table, with another legend stenciled along the front edge of the top: DOLBY STEREO PLAY AND RECORD. Some kind of an entertainment center, no doubt. She had been about to reach for the "On-Off-Vol." knob, certain that Spock would have warned her if the tricorder had indicated potential danger, when he had distracted her by pointing across the room. 

There on a small round table was an antique lamp, its shade constructed of irregular pieces of stained glass that threw multi-shaped spots of color on the wall behind. In the long gray time she had lived on this world, the glowing artifact was the most beautiful thing she had seen since she arrived. 

"A Tiffany lamp," she whispered, awed, and approached it with a reverence that the computer-box had completely failed to stir in her. "Oh, Spock--look!" Cupping her hands around the shade without touching it, she leaned over the glowing light to admire it more closely and then looked up at him. "Isn't it lovely?" 

He was looking down, his face set. He said nothing. 

_Now what did I do?_ But it was useless to ask, she knew. 

A moment later, she had forgotten her disappointment at being unable to share her pleasure with him. On the wall beside the door, between the two front windows, was a moon-faced electric clock with numbers around its perimeter. She had seen one like it only once before, on a cultural history tape, and she knew now what she suspected Spock had known all along. 

"Where's the bathroom?" she asked, determined to verify her suspicion. 

As she had expected, it bore little resemblance to the bathrooms she knew, with their recessed basins and other modern aesthetic and space-saving features. Instead, she saw a cramped room with a floor of motley tile, cold and faintly damp against her bare feet, and fixtures that loomed out of the walls like angular porcelain polar bears emerging from an ice age. At the top left side of the drum-like toilet tank, there was a small horizontal handle. 

"They were Bounders!" 

"So it would seem." But Spock appeared unaware of her mixed feelings of extreme relief that the habitat was functional and mild chagrin that whoever had built it was a member of an esoteric cult. Showing more enthusiasm than she had seen him express in three months, he approached the toilet, removed the heavy tank lid, and set it on the sink with a chilly clank. "Observe." She moved to stand next to him and peer down into the tank, telling herself that this had better be as fascinating as his demeanor suggested. The inside walls were streaked with slimy green, and an unpleasant black ball floated between them. But the pronouncement she had anticipated was indeed forthcoming, and she suppressed a sigh. "A machine with no power source," he continued, and flushed. The toilet made a sound like a large fish coughing, and the black ball sought the receding surface of the water with a small _plop_ as the bowl began to fill. Clear water. Not the chemical muck that they had been one of their many mixed blessings in the cave.... Uh-oh. 

"How did they clean the bowl?" she asked, and then noticed for the first time a long-handled brush standing in a holder on the floor. She glanced at Spock, who raised an eyebrow, replaced the tank lid on the now silent toilet, and walked out, leaving her alone with the polar bears and the brush. _Oh, really?_ she thought. _We'll see about that_. 

There were two small bedrooms, a relief to her as well as to him, she was sure; now they would both have the privacy that had been denied them in the cave. The first room contained two narrow cots, one mounted on top of the other by means of a wooden frame that included a ladder leading to the upper cot. Two thin mattresses were supported by metal springs that creaked when she pressed on the top mattress. _Beats hell out of a sleeping bag,_ she thought, firmly rejecting the tactile image of a soft mattress that rose in her mind. When she came to the second bedroom, she thought for one giddy moment that her phantasm had become real; the bed, which filled most of the room, consisted of a sinfully thick mattress on a low wooden frame. Spock had paused in the doorway, eyeing the object she coveted with borderline distrust. Good. Maybe he'd prefer the other-- As she pressed her hand into the mattress, it sloshed audibly, and she squealed. 

"There's _water_ in there!" 

"Indeed." Spock approached the bed and gave it a firmer squeeze than she had, causing an alarming undulation under the surface. "Do you wish to sleep in this room?" he asked hopefully. 

"Um, no. No thanks." She smiled cheerily at him as she passed him on the way out. _If I get to clean the head, chum, you get to sleep in the ocean._

As they returned to the living room, she said uneasily, "They must have been a family." She did not want to think about the personal things she had seen in the bedrooms: possessions, clothing, towels, toys, abandoned where they lay, as though their owners were only gone for the day. And yet the dust lay three months thick. Later, she thought. Later. Too much for now. "I wonder what they were doing out here. In space, I mean, if they were--are--were so crazy about the pre-space era." Later, she thought. Later I can handle it better. She glanced at him to see if he had noticed her stumbling over the verb tense, but he was oblivious. Looking in the direction of his gaze, she saw why. 

"Computer," she commanded expectantly, moving across the room to join him in front of yet another darkened screen. Nothing happened. Spock reached around behind the screen and there was another click. After a few moments of examining the initial display, which looked to Sarah like the beginning of a child's game, he typed a few characters on the keyboard and murmured something uncomplimentary. Expecting, from what he had said, to see a graphic of stone knives and bear skins, she saw instead something far less amusing. 

"It _has_ to mean eighty gigs," she said incredulously. 

"It is a computer--of sorts. Computers invariably mean precisely what they say." 

"Eighty _megs?_ But where are the memory banks?" He explained. "Hardisk? Hard _disk_? Where is it?" He explained again, typing as he talked. A database appeared, the data unimaginatively displayed in two-dimensional rectangles. Only peripherally aware of what they were doing, they both drew up chairs and sat in front of the screen as the watery sunlight dimmed and turned faintly gold where it slanted across the floor from the open door. Finally, she said, "Biological research station?" He nodded. New screens of the specimen catalog came and went as the sky darkened and the light on the floor grayed and then disappeared. The sky was almost black and the room swathed in shadow when she said, "They were scientists. How could they choose to work with this primitive equipment?" 

"A specimen catalog does not require sophisticated equipment, and Earthbounders enjoy flaunting their convictions." He sighed. "They--I believe you might say that they make a career out of acting weird." The emphasis on _you_ was faint but perceptible. 

Hiding a smile, she rose, rotated her shoulders to ease the stiffness in her back, and went to the door, realizing as she did so that she had never before seen Tara at night. The rain had stopped and the clear sky was completely dark now, dotted by a few stars. Both moons had risen, one full and one a barely visible crescent, giving the scene an eerie unreality that bought a coldness to her spirit and the sting of tears to her eyes. She had occasionally been homesick on Vulcan, but on Vulcan home was only four days away and there was always someone to talk to, something interesting going on. Here.... She closed the door, and saw that a packet of paper was hanging on the back of it. 

Someone had made the artifact by hand, sewing the sheets together with brightly colored variegated yarn. On the top sheet was a grid, seven squares wide. There were three squares in the first row, seven in each of the next four rows, and one lone square in the sixth, at the bottom left corner of the grid. The squares were numbered from one to thirty-one. Across the top of the sheet, someone had hand-lettered the word "November." 

Old Calendar. But on Tara? "Spock, look at this." 

He inspected, flipped pages, appeared to be doing calculations in his head. "It is a variation of the Gregorian calendar, but adjusted for the planetary year of 378 days. One day has been added to each month except February, which has thirty days. Ingenious." 

"But it's the end of winter here. Not November." 

"This calendar has not been used for three months," he said quietly, and pointed to a hand-written notation on the sixth. Leaning forward, she read it. 

_T. City._

Just gone for the day. 

"Let's go back to the cave," she said. "Just for tonight. We can move here in the morning. When it's light?" It was a plea. "Let's--" 

"Stop." He had never touched her before, but now he grasped both her arms and shook her a little. "There are no ghosts here." His dark eyes met hers directly now, and she saw no condescension, no censure, only something very like despair. 

"But there are," she whispered. 

"Are you afraid?" 

"No." She bowed her head and the tears flowed silently. Feeling his hands tighten, she leaned her forehead against his chest and rested there until the tears stopped. "But I don't want to stay here tonight." 

  


When she woke in the morning, she was alone in the cave for the first time since the holocaust. 

_No panic,_ she thought, forcing herself to walk, not run, to the entrance and push it open. Sunlight, and air clear and cool. She let out the breath she had been holding without realizing it, and looked around. Ledge empty. Hovercraft gone. What in the world could he be up to? 

When he returned, he gave no explanation, and she did not ask him for one. If they were going to live together until they were rescued, they would have to do it with respect for one another's privacy. But--there was a subtle eagerness about him, an urgency quickly suppressed. Something he wanted her to see? "Do you wish to return to the porto now?" he asked as soon as they had had breakfast. 

"Can't be too soon for me." 

The place was truly beautiful, she decided as their craft settled onto the beach. Shelter that would allow them to see the sky, and the sun. The air was still cool, but the sun was warm and the forest was alive with sound. She did not want to go inside, but she knew that there was work to do before they made the house their own, and not very pleasant work. 

But it had all been done. 

No wrinkled towels hung in the bathroom now, and no toys littered the smaller bedroom where one cot hung above the other. The clothing was gone from the closets, and the family photographs that she had not wanted to examine closely had disappeared from the small bureau in the other bedroom. There must have been a broom somewhere, for the place had been swept. There was no dust anywhere. 

Without looking at him, she went to the door and closed it halfway so that she could see the calendar. The top sheet said "February," and nothing was written in any of the squares. 

"Thank you," she said, not turning, expecting an answer full of obligations. But when she looked around, he was gone. 

  


There was no food in the house. 

Distracted by the primitive quaintness of the Earthbounders' habitat, she had not at first realized that one thing they could not survive without simply did not exist there. The stores in the cave had been heavily depleted; most of the Thermocans were empty and buried, and the few that were left contained meat that she would need for its protein during her pregnancy, but that she was sure Spock would not touch. The rest was negligible: powdered milk that would last perhaps another month or two; packages of long, tasteless strings of pasta; the least appetizing of the vegetables; some dried fruit; a few sweets. And all of the food in the porto had been contaminated by radiation and had to be thrown away. 

The small transparent structure was a greenhouse, but it was full of tangled weeds and dead flowers. There was real dirt there, however--black dirt that looked as though it had been brought from Earth. Outside, between the porto and the edge of the forest, was a plot of ground that had once been cleared but was now tangled and overgrown. They suspected that it had been a vegetable garden, and as soon as they had moved in they began to clear it. There were no uncontaminated seedlings in the house, but the governor's family had stored some in the cave--enough for one season's planting of a vegetable garden, and a few selected flower seeds and bulbs. 

Spring came in with a rush of warm wind and an abundance of sunlight, and they made haste to take advantage of it. By an almost unspoken agreement, they decided that the greenhouse would be kept for flowers and the vegetables would be planted outside. 

Sarah had expected Spock to argue with her about it. Knowing that starvation lurked just over their horizon, she nevertheless felt an unreasoning determination that the flowers would be a flash of pure extravagance in their otherwise need-driven lives. "I know they're impractical," she explained apologetically. "But with this weather, the vegetables are going to grow as fast as the weeds outside, and we really don't need the greenhouse for them." Spock merely nodded, and often in the evenings he would join her there, exhibiting an unexpected expertise and depth of knowledge. How had he learned so much about growing things, she wondered. Did they teach you how to grow flowers on starships? But still loath to question him unless it was necessary, she never asked. 

The loose tunics and pants provided by the clothing cycler were more than enough protection against the increasingly balmy weather, and the machine also provided rough sheets and towels from the same recycled product. The Earthbounders, always careful not to let their personal enthusiasms pollute the environment, had also buried a solid waste reducer in the foundation beneath the bathroom; it and the recycler were their only concessions to technological progress, but they had made the right choices. And so the lake remained pristine, lapping clear and clean at the white beach that began a few feet from their door. "No suds in the surf, no poop in the pond," Sarah commented irreverently. No response from Spock, but that was not unusual. He spoke when spoken to but rarely spontaneously, remaining her willing coworker but almost never her companion. 

Yet he did seem a bit more relaxed, she thought. When the waterbed had begun to leak several weeks after they arrived, he had promptly drained it with the garden hose and substituted a futon he had found rolled up in a closet. The change in his sleeping arrangement had been good for him; small talk was still beyond him, but when Sarah thought it necessary to brief him on his part in the coming delivery of the baby, he was more than willing to participate in that conversation. Reassured, she was grateful that he was quite able to listen attentively when the situation demanded it. He now knew what to expect, and what was expected of him. 

As spring moved into summer, her child grew and became increasingly active within her. Doing regular self-scans, Sarah knew that her own body was borderline malnourished because of the small amount that she ate; it sometimes seemed that she thought of nothing but food, for both she and Spock were now carefully rationing their supplies until their garden yielded its first crop. But the baby was reassuringly healthy, and the pregnancy uneventful. As balmy spring became white hot summer, Sarah was confined more often to the house, and her boredom became exquisite. 

The computer, its capabilities upgraded dramatically after Spock had cannibalized his communicator as well as the air purifier and the waste reducer from the cave, now provided access to a diverting array of games and recreational reading that Eustace George and his family had stored there on tape. But when Spock was in the house, she seldom had access to the computer. Doggedly, even obsessively, he continued to attempt to devise a communications program that would permit him to reach the starships he was sure must be within hailing distance. Knowing that their exile would not end until he was successful, Sarah tried to repress the impulse to inquire, "When do I get a turn?" as he spent hour after hour typing away in front of the console, which still would not answer to a vocal command. One positive result of his compulsive dialog with uncooperative technology was that he would occasionally talk to her about it afterwards. But she spent many a hot afternoon indolently watching the Earthbounders' tapes on their primitive equipment. 

Believing him to be oblivious to her activities, she was surprised to see him turn from his work when she switched off the screen in disgust late one afternoon. Trying to think of something intellectual and uplifting that might start a conversation with him, she could only sigh and shake her head. 

"Same stupid misunderstandings, same stock characters, practically the same story over and over. I don't know how anyone could watch these things, much less take them offworld for entertainment." 

"There are many such tapes on the _Enterprise_ as well." 

"It must have cost a small fortune to have all these Two-D formatted like this. What do you suppose the attraction is?" 

If she had intended to draw him out on the subject of human literary aberrations, she was unsuccessful. Instead, he frowned and said thoughtfully, "The males are all non-humans." 

"It's just a convention. The romance novel, twenty-third-century style." Grimacing, Sarah abandoned her slumped position in the soft, enfolding couch, and pulled herself up to sit on the edge of the cushion instead. More and more of late, her backbone objected to the contours of the living room furniture. But it was no longer possible to pull her knees up under her chin as she watched. Half teasing, she went on: "Exotic alien worlds, alien lover, the basic metaphor of the genre for centuries. Goes all the way back to _Jane Eyre_." 

"Mr. Rochester was not...alien." 

"Oh--" Rubbing tired eyes, Sarah sighed and tried to fudge. "I don't know." Conversation or no, she did not feel up to explaining this particular metaphor to the literal Mr. Spock. 

"Did you perceive Jim Kirk as alien?" he asked. 

Jolted out of her lethargy, she dropped her hands from her face and returned his gaze. He did not appear self-conscious, only curious. It was the kind of question that one friend might ask another. 

"No," she answered honestly, bemused by the glow of retrospective affection that the admission elicited in her. "Jim was...familiar." 

She had intended no double entendre, and immediately wished she could take the word back. To her relief, he arched one eyebrow, and his eyes seemed to smile. But then he turned back to the computer and began to type again as though there had never been an interruption. 

_Let it go,_ she thought. _Don't push your luck._ The Taran equivalent of a housefly buzzed across her ear and settled on her arm. The lake murmured against the beach, a window shade flapped, the toilet was running again. The room was stifling. "Spock, _talk_ to me. Please?" She slapped at the fly, but it flew away unscathed. 

He stopped typing, but did not turn. She knew what he would say before he said it. "What do you wish to talk about?" 

"Nothing in particular. I just feel so--isolated." Her voice broke. 

"You are indulging in self-pity." She knew that he had half turned to face her, but she could not look at him now, although his tone was even and not accusatory. "That serves no purpose." 

"I don't want sympathy." 

"What, then?" Polite. Patient. Marginally condescending. Where was the friend she had glimpsed a moment ago? 

"I don't know how to explain it." Tired, tired, tired. "Forget it." 

"There is a significant probability that length of our isolation here is inversely proportional to the amount of time I spend attempting to communicate with a passing starship. If there is an urgent matter you wish to discuss--" 

"I said forget it." 

"Very well." He turned back to the keyboard. 

"How often does a ship pass close enough to hear a signal from here?" 

The tapping stopped. Silence. Then: "I have not been able to establish a viable communication channel." 

"That makes two of us." She rose and moved toward her bedroom. He might not be all human, but he knew how to lay on the guilt. 

It was late afternoon, the hottest part of the day. She lay on her side, too big these last few weeks to sleep on her stomach, wishing she could raise the shade and catch a vagrant breeze off the lake but knowing that the room would become a furnace if she did. Briefly she toyed with the idea of working in the greenhouse until she could justify eating again. But lately Spock had been working there in the evenings, and that joint endeavor appeared to be the only thing they could enjoy doing together. Even a lecture on companion planting was better than silence. And it was no longer a mystery to her that he knew so much about growing flowers. His human mother, he had told her one evening, had a greenhouse on Vulcan. Have to get him to talk more about his mother and how she coped with _her_ isolation. Once they got off this godforsaken planet, some of it might be useful in patient counseling.... 

Only slightly tired, but having nothing better to do, she dozed, sweating, until the sun had set and it was time to prepare her meager meal. When she came again to the living room, Spock was still at the computer. 

_How often does a ship pass close enough...?_ Her own question echoed in her mind, and for the first time it occurred to her that he had not answered it. But this didn't seem like a good time to press the matter. 

Later that evening, as they weeded together in the relative cool of the greenhouse, she said, "You didn't answer my question this afternoon. How often does a ship pass close enough to pick up a signal from here?" 

"The proximity of the normal shipping lanes is insufficient for a weak signal to reach a merchant vessel from this sector." 

"That's not what I asked." Twice, now. Dread touched her, black like space itself. "What about exploratory ships like the _Enterprise_?" 

"There have been no Starfleet vessels within range for the past four point three Earth months." 

"You mean...since you started monitoring, there hasn't been even _one_ Starfleet vessel in this sector?" He nodded, his gaze still on his work. "But--this is the Centaurus system. We're practically on top of home plate. Where _are_ they all?" 

"I do not know." He looked up then, and the bleakness in his eyes surprised and horrified her. 

"Jim will come back for you." She did not know where the words came from, but as soon as she said them, she knew that they were the right ones. 

"That is not logical." Yet his despair was gone as quickly as it had come. 

"Neither is he." The horror receded to a shadow, and then it was gone. 

"I know." He smiled briefly, fleetingly, and then resumed his digging in home soil. 

  


As the summer inferno roared on (White sky. Blistering winds. No clouds. Would it never rain again?), she realized that the greenhouse garden was their refuge from fear, their taste of home, while the vegetable garden was their albatross. The day that they tore July off the back of the door and saw August--the month of the impending birth--for the first time, they kept to the house all day and ventured out only at sunset to continue their endless hosing down of the fruits of their labors, the only assurance they had of surviving the drowning rains of winter if the mysterious absence of Starfleet from Federation Sector One continued indefinitely. Stupid, she thought, sweat streaming down her face even though the sun had fallen beneath the horizon. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ not to have used the greenhouse for something they could eat. 

"Was that logical?" she demanded, wiping her forehead with her arm. "What in the world were you _thinking_ of to let me talk you into planting _flowers_ in there?" No answer. He seldom said a word while they were in the vegetable garden. His time to sulk, hers to shrill. "I'm sorry. I'm just so damn _sick_ of not being able to bend over or lie on my stomach or see my feet. Too bad you got stuck with the baggage when it wasn't even your fault." 

"That," he said stiffly, "is an interesting idiom. Were you forced?" 

It took her a moment to recover from her surprise that he had answered her, and another to realize that he was needling her in his own incomparable way for suggesting that Jim was the sole cause of her current predicament. Fury seized her, and the accumulated resentments of more than eight months made her struggle to her feet with surprising physical agility. She had used a number of obscenities in her life, and heard a few more. Now she used them all, arms under her belly as though she were holding it up, sweat streaming from every pore. At that moment, there were not enough words in any language to tell him what she thought of him. 

He dropped the hose and faced her in the lengthening shadows. Tall, slim, supple, and he wasn't even sweating. 

"Go inside." Hostility verging on contempt, and his eyes were jet black. 

"Don't give me _orders_ , you bastard!" 

"That is inaccurate, you are hysterical, and you are endangering your health and that of your child by remaining here." He picked up her and carried her into the house and to her room, surprising her so that she did not even struggle. "You are a _physician_ , Sarah." At the word "physician," he dropped her several inches onto the lower cot, so hard that she bounced. "I suggest that you behave like one." And he stalked out the door, slamming it behind him. 

She pulled herself up on her elbows, her misshapen body still awkwardly sprawled on the cot, and stared at the door, astounded, all her anger evaporated. 

_Sarah._

She lay down again, automatically turning on her side to support her protruding abdomen on the mattress, and contemplated the unexpected joy of being called by name for the first time in eight months. Nothing had changed, she knew. They were still stuck with each other, basically out of tune and maladjusted to one another's personalities, both raging silently against their isolation and their boredom and, yes, their fear that rescue would not come in time to save their lives. But she had a name now. 

The sun had dropped beneath the horizon by the time she pulled herself to her feet and lumbered into the kitchen. A cool breeze was blowing through the house, stirring the curtains and making the rooms livable again after the intense heat of the day. Famished, but refreshed by the temperature change, she turned toward the small kitchen and stopped to contemplate the sight of treasure unearthed in two piles on the edge of the sink. 

The seeds stored in the cave by the governor and his family had included growth-enhanced asparagus, able to be harvested the first season. Before their argument, Sarah and Spock had agreed that the some of the asparagus was ready to be picked, and that they might sample it that evening. She had heard Spock come into the house once while she lay on the bed contemplating intervening events, but had not remembered their joint decision until she saw the result of it on the drain board. About two pounds of it, she judged as she approached it--slowly, her excitement mounting as though she were a child again, contemplating her presents piled beneath the tree on Christmas morning. Scaly, unpeeled, and exuding a wet green smell that sent her senses reeling. Riches in the midst of poverty. She leaned close and inhaled as though she were gasping for air after nearly drowning. 

Neither of them had ever prepared a meal for the other, and she smiled briefly as she noted that their treasure had been divided as evenly as if he had counted the stalks. Yet without hesitation she pushed the two verdant piles together. To peel or not to peel? Her lifelong friend Mary Jones enjoyed cooking and had taught Sarah much of what she knew about meal preparation. The stalks would cook more thoroughly if they were peeled, but she and Spock needed every bit of nourishment they could get. Not to peel, then. She washed each stalk carefully, resisting the temptation to sample them, found a steamer among the jumble of cooking utensils in the cupboards, and paused briefly, wondering how much asparagus one could expect to steam at once; Mary's instructions had been given on the fly, and her student had been polite but fundamentally uninterested. But did it matter? She herself could cheerfully have consumed all of it raw, and she suspected that Spock felt the same. And it would be full dark soon. He might stop work in the garden at any time. 

While the vegetables steamed she set the table, now into the spirit of the occasion; until now, both of them had eaten when they were hungry, often out of the can, and simultaneously only when they happened to be hungry at the same time. Why? she wondered. Communal mealtimes are a social event, a time for the family.... She allowed the thought to trail off, standing still for a moment, gazing absently at the Tiffany lamp casting its multicolored glow over the waiting plates. If they were going to be marooned forever, it would make sense to establish communality and even ritual. Maybe they had both known that--and avoided it? Shaking herself out of her reverie, she moved back to the stove, wondering whether it was too soon to serve the food, when Spock appeared in the doorway. 

He stood still for a moment, and she thought that, rather than slim and supple, he now looked gaunt and just plain hungry. Was he salivating as she was? she wondered, and smiled. What did it matter? Rejoice in our differences, even if they aren't. 

"I accept your gift of self," he said quietly, in Vulcan, and she answered in kind. 

"The obligation was mine." Her smile turned wry as she remembered her earlier behavior. "Shall we?" And she handed him his plate. 

There were no uncontaminated seasonings or spices in the Earthbounders' habitat, much less anything resembling butter. And so they consumed the first fruit of their first harvest in its pristine state--stems, scales, and all. This required a good deal of chewing, but the results were so intensely pleasurable that Sarah had no regrets: it lasted longer this way. While they ate, Spock gave her one of his lectures, this time the one on canning and preserving, obviously long on theory supported by no practical experience at all. She listened, nodded from time to time, even asked a few questions. But knowing that he would be more than willing to repeat everything when the appropriate time came, she finally asked, "Don't you ever stay mad?" 

As she had anticipated, he frowned, and then began to speak. Before he could say anything, she added hastily, "I know. You don't _get_ mad. But don't you ever _stay_ mad?" Regretfully, she put what was probably the second- or third-last bite of asparagus into her mouth and chewed slowly, trying to make it last as long as possible. 

"That would be illogical." She sighed; there was, after all, no answer to that one. Then he went on without a pause. "Do you want to lose your child?" 

"No!" Shocked out of her amused exasperation, she almost choked. 

"Then perhaps you should discontinue working in the garden until after the child is born." 

"That's nonsense," she answered more calmly, but indistinctly, since her mouth was still partially full. "I'm not going to let you do all the work around here, so forget that idea." She swallowed and went on, speaking clearly now. "I'm not ill, Spock, and it wasn't hot out there. I would have been fine if I hadn't worked myself up." 

"Then why did you?" 

"Self-pity. You called it, remember?" Frowning now, she turned her gaze to the darkened window. "My life is a mess...." There was no movement from him, but she shifted her gaze back to him. "I'm sorry. Yours is too." He looked down, again frowning. "You shouldn't have to put up with a bitchy pregnant woman when it's not even...." He looked up then, raising one eyebrow, and she could not help smiling. "I'm sorry." 

His mild amusement vanished, and he sighed. "You have now said that twice in less than twelve point six seconds." 

"Damn it, _stop_ that!" She struck the table lightly, exasperated rather than angry, with her clenched fist, and then unclenched it. He was watching her, resigned, waiting. "Don't worry. I'm not going to apologize again. Does that make you happy? Never mind. Forget I asked." 

"Do you expect either of us to be happy here?" There was nothing accusatory in his tone; rather, she thought she heard a note of incredulity. 

"That would be totally illogical." Suddenly spent, she pushed her plate away and put her head down on her hands. 

"You must eat." 

"Don't give me...." Making herself stop, she sat up again and finished her asparagus. Just like a little kid, she thought. Finish you asparagus, Sarah. Now cold and stringy, it didn't taste as good as it had at first, possibly because, for the first time in days, she had had enough to satisfy her hunger. "Don't you resent this at all?" 

"I will do what I must." 

"That's not an answer. It's not even your child." 

"I am here. He is not." 

" _That's_ an answer?" 

"Indeed." 

She tried to read his expression in the lamplight, sensing disapproval but suspecting that she was projecting. _It was just a fun weekend, Spock. Nothing to get uptight about._ In fantasy, she went on justifying, trying to explain how it was. But the words would not come, and eventually he rose, went to the sink, washed his own plate and cup, and returned to the computer. So much for communality. And why bother to explain? Even if she said nothing more, he would never think less of Jim. Only of her. 

  


Sarah's labor began before dawn on a cool "August" morning, with Aldrin's full face just above the Tower's shoulder and Armstrong a pale crescent hovering near the lake's rim. It gave her some comfort, as she stood at her bedroom window and breathing deeply, that Aldrin cast very little light. The conflicting and overlapping shadows of the two moons were subtly disorienting, and she did not want to be disoriented now. When she had awakened with the first mild contraction, she had almost panicked because it was still night; the fear that her baby would be born in the dark was her irrational companion even after six months outside the cave. But now, looking out across the beach to the smooth surface of the lake, she laid her hand on her stomach and whispered, "It'll be light soon, little one. By the time you come, it'll be morning." 

Morning struck hotter and more humid than it had been for the previous two weeks. When Spock joined her in the kitchen just before dawn, Sarah was already sweating, sitting at the table with a cup of the coldest water that the faucet would produce. When he saw her at the table, he paused fractionally in the doorway and then stepped resolutely into the kitchen. "Do you require any assistance at this time?" he asked, and Sarah was about to respond with a flip answer when she was suddenly inundated with fear so strong that she could scarcely refrain from gasping. 

Fear? 

_But I'm not afraid_ , she thought, momentarily doubting her perceptions of her own feelings. And then she realized whose fear it was. 

It was gone in less than a second, like a flash of lightning illuminating an entire landscape which then disappeared completely. But years of experience had taught her that she was a natural empath, and she had occasionally experienced other people's emotions so strongly that they appeared for the moment to be her own. Out of respect for Spock's privacy, she had never tried to read him, and indeed had tried not to. That she had perceived his emotion anyway was indication enough of its strength. And yet it now appeared to be gone. Controlled, of course. But what was he afraid of? 

"No. I'm fine." Her first impulse was to give him a bright, falsely reassuring smile. But she knew at once that that would have been useless. _Don't fake anything. He won't be fooled._ Instead, she permitted herself the rueful grin that much more accurately revealed her true feelings. "Except I'm hungry." Slight frown. "No. I won't eat anything. But I have plenty to do. You remember. I told you how I was going to keep myself occupied while I'm in labor." 

He smiled faintly--puzzled pixie, eyebrows on the rise. "Are you sure you are able?" 

"Yes. Go on. Work on the computer. I'll show you what I've done when it's finished." 

Relief. Unmistakable. _What did you think? That I'd expect you to hold my hand all day?_

Spock had disposed of every trace of the Earthbounders' domestic activities, and Sarah had never learned to sew anyway. The recycler would be the only source of clothing for the baby, and she had asked Spock to teach her how to reprogram it for size, knowing that the loose tunics they wore would be easily adapted for a newborn's clothing, and that miniature resized towels would provide an adequate diaper substitute. Spock's well-ordered mind had persuasively indicated that the preparations should be made ahead of time, but Sarah had refused. The reprogramming and actual production would only take a short time, and the activity seemed to her a most fitting way to occupy her own mind while she was in labor. And so she spent several hours absorbed in her task, using the preview screen to check the scale and shape of the tiny garment before she produced a prototype, taking her time adjusting the proportions of the gown before turning out an even dozen in a burst of pride at her accomplishment. Then two dozen diapers, and she was done, everything folded neatly on top of the recycler. More than enough to last until she was up and about again. 

It was mid-morning, and she was sweating profusely and cramping regularly every five minutes when she finally turned to see the familiar sight of Spock's back as he sat at the computer. 

"Look," she said, turning in her chair, unfolding one of the gowns and holding it up. He turned to face her, and across the room she felt another lightening stab of fear, quickly controlled. He nodded, face nearly expressionless, and turned back to the computer. And she thought, _He isn't afraid of what's going to happen. He's afraid of how he might_ feel _about it_. 

Turning back to the recycler, she rested an elbow on it and wiped her streaming face with her other arm. Adrenaline surged through her. Contractions every five minutes. She was at the starting gate now; the race was about to be run. And for the first time since they were marooned, she felt as though she were in charge. _You help me, my friend, and I'll help you. Deal?_ He would never have agreed if he had known she perceived his fear, but that did not dampen her excitement. For the first time, she had something to contribute besides being a burden. 

The thought exhilarated her, and the knowledge that hormones were fueling that exhilaration did not diminish it. Smiling a little, she rose to her feet, only then to discover that the wooden chair on which she had been sitting and the floor beneath it were both wet. 

"I better go lie down," she announced matter-of-factly, "Water's broken. Have to keep the head off the cord." And without looking to see his reaction, she went off to follow her own advice. 

During the next half hour, the contractions intensified and became much more frequent. Sarah concentrated on breathing and not pushing, taking frequent readings with her medical tricorder, and reporting dilation to the fraction of a centimeter. As she had hoped, the detailed reports appeared to reassure Spock, who at first sat on the floor beside the cot and then silently fetched a wet cloth to wipe her streaming face. If he was frightened now she did not perceive it, and once again she felt in control, competent, even prideful. Only once did he show emotion--when a particularly strong contraction caused her to groan aloud. Rising, he looked down at her for a moment and then extended his hands, which she grasped strongly and gratefully. It was only a few moments later that she gasped, "Now!" He pulled her to her feet, and squatting over the soft, clean place they had prepared, she gave birth--now grasping his shoulders while he received the child into his hands--knowing that there was no one else in the universe that she would rather have had with her at that moment. 

"Is she all right?" she gasped. 

"Perfect." His voiced seemed to come from very far away. Heat and exhaustion and the smell of blood rose up to enfold her, and she collapsed backwards onto the clean towel they had spread on the cot. He went on with his work, doing everything she had told him he must do for her and the child. When he finished, she was lying on the cot in a fresh tunic, with a clean towel between her legs. At her side, lying on another clean towel with her umbilical cord neatly cut and tied, was a very red baby girl squalling at the top of her lungs. 

Spock was at the window, his back to the room. 

_It's all right_ , Sarah thought. _You did good, Spock. You did real good._ But she knew there was no point in saying it aloud. He was unreachable. 

The deepest loneliness she had ever known threatened to engulf her, but she fought it back as she took her child in her arms for the first time. 

"Hi, baby." Spock, ever the planner, had put her tunic on backwards so that the opening was down the front. "Hi, baby girl." Tears mingled with the sweat on her cheeks, she took the baby to her breast, crooning. As the infant began to suck strongly, Sarah wrapped the towel around her, never once thinking to check Spock's assertion that the child was perfect. 

It would sooner have occurred to her to check the sky to see if it was green. 

  


She slept, woke to nurse the baby, slept, woke, nursed, and slept again. Spock was always nearby, and once, late in the afternoon, he brought her a warm Thermocan of soup, one of the last. She drank it gratefully and nursed Jill again, peripherally aware that he averted his eyes when she partially bared her breast, but resigned herself to the inevitable. _Some things you just can't do anything about, Spock._ A sense of calm and well-being pervaded her consciousness. The job was done, and with Spock's help, she had done it well. 

When she woke fully, it was dark. Armstrong and Aldrin were both out of phase, and she opened her eyes to the stars shining through her window. Simultaneously she realized that the baby was no longer at her side and that Spock was standing at the window, off-side so that the panorama of the sky was only partially eclipsed by his shadowy figure. He was holding something, and Sarah's lips parted silently, her exclamation of surprise quickly stifled, as she realized that the bundle he was holding against his shoulder was Jill. 

Narrowing her eyes against the darkness in the room, she studied his face, which was visible to her in profile. It was far from expressionless, but the expression she saw there was at first unfathomable. Unaware of her scrutiny, he gazed up the stars with complete concentration. Yet his forehead was smooth, the expressive brows untroubled. Meditating? She had seen him in meditation many times, but now he gave no sign of being in a trance. _Making a promise. Something to do with Jill. And Jim?_ The words sprang to mind from nowhere, as was often the case when she grasped something empathetically, and she accepted them without wondering how she knew. And with that acceptance came another. 

_We three will never leave this world, and he knows it._

 _And so do I._

No tears accompanied the realization. As soon as she came to it, a burden of denial fell from her spirit, leaving it as spent and flat-bellied as her body under the sheet. Knowing that all the energy that she, and perhaps Spock, had expended on denial of their reality could now be spent in accepting it, she closed her eyes and drifted off once again. Behind her lids, stars shone softly around a tall, silent shadow with a very small bundle held protectively against his shoulder. 

  


Two weeks later, she and Spock flew over Tower City together. 

When Jill was three days old, he had left them alone for the first time and flown away in the hovercraft without explanation. Preoccupied and more than a little afflicted with post-partum and post-denial depression, she did not question him when he returned. But his stiff, controlled expression told her more clearly than words what he had gone to see. She wondered if this could be the first time he had gone to see it, and if he, like most humans, found it necessary to view the body before accepting the death. 

A few days later, she said, "I have to go and see Tower City too." 

He had offered to accompany her on a short walk along the beach while they both listened for Jill to announce that it was time for her late-evening feeding. Suspecting that rather than seeking her company he simply wanted to keep an eye on her, Sarah had nevertheless acquiesced with suitably muted pleasure; a self-appointed security detail was better than no company at all. Yet his politely protective manner irritated her because of the ambivalent feelings it aroused. Part of her wanted desperately to be watched over and taken care of, and another part wanted to tell him to get the hell away and quit hovering; she could take care of herself just fine, thank you very much. The two were a dangerous mix, and the conflict between them potentially volatile. She was keeping an eye on the mix while he kept an eye on her, and with some success. But when the thought of Tower City occurred to her, she spoke without caution for the first time since the baby's birth. As soon as the words were out, she realized that although they were deeply sincere, her ulterior motive had been to get an emotional response from him. Any response at all, as long as it was genuine. 

He continued to walk, hands still clasped behind his back. But his pace slowed, and she turned around to face him, feeling less guilty than awed. No control there. Simply a listening silence that she had never elicited from him before. His gaze met hers directly, in his eyes she saw nothing but understanding, empathy, and--could it be?--a hint of respect. In that moment, they were for the first time truly friends. 

"Indeed," he said, and then the moment flew. Control banished understanding, and he was himself again. (Himself? And who might that be?) "When you are stronger." He moved past her and ahead of her, turned, and raised one eyebrow. "Do you wish to continue walking, or are you fatigued?" 

"Oh, Spock." It was only a whisper, and she looked away to conceal her disappointment and hurt. _How am I going to survive this?_ she thought. _How am I going to survive_ him? 

But before the conversation could continue, another of Jill's staccato awakenings split the air with unhappy demands for sustenance. 

  


She knew that the scene would not be one of carnage, since the city had been incinerated. But the fused desolation skimmed by the shadow of their craft was worse than carnage. It was a mirror of hell, spitting infernal reflections back at the sun. She clung to the side of the craft, clutching her child with her other arm, wondering if she would vomit or faint, but aware that Spock, for once, was not hovering. He must have gone through it himself, alone, and he knew that she must go through it too in order to survive it. And yet, after what seemed like years but could only have been minutes, she heard him say tensely, "We must go now, Sarah," and realized that Jill was crying. 

It was the most piteous, utterly demoralizing wail that Sarah had ever heard. No neonate that she had come in contact with had ever emitted such a sound. But then, no neonate that she had come in contact with had ever sung a dirge for twenty thousand souls. 

"We have to get her out of here." Clenching her teeth to keep them from chattering, Sarah tried to nurse the baby as Spock turned the craft toward home. But Jill refused to take the breast and continued to wail until they reached the bungalow. Then she suckled briefly and fell into an exhausted sleep so deep that Sarah was loath to put her down. "What could have happened to her?" she asked, hugging the child to her, eyes raised beseechingly to Spock. "Could she possibly have sensed...their pain?" 

"Or yours." But before she could catch his eye, he had left the room. 

  


Aldrin hung high and Armstrong low as Sarah entered the living room late that evening, her travel jumpsuit over her arm--limp now, a dead thing that lived only in memory. Spock sat alone in the dark, the curled fingers of one hand resting against his mouth. But when she entered, he looked up at her and silently raised his eyebrows. 

"I'm going to bury it," she said. 

Without answering, he rose, went to his room, and returned with his Starfleet uniform--pants and underwear as black as the night, shirt the sickly gray-blue of a human corpse--folded with such loving precision that each perfect square was the same size. The sight of it was too much for Sarah, and the tears that had wanted to be shed all day poured down her cheeks. But she made no sound. 

"I will go with you," he said in the gentlest tone she had ever heard him use. 

They buried their former lives in a single shallow grave at the edge of the woods, the leaves casting flickering double-shadows in the overlapping light of the two moons. Then they sat for a long time, cross-legged on the ground, while Sarah wept silently, sustained only by the warm, strong fingers that encircled her arm.  


  


### Home Before Home: Their Second Autumn

Like the birds of Earth, the birds of Tara flew south for the winter, fearing (Sarah suspected in one of her rare fanciful moods) that the rains would melt the color from their feathers, making it run off in the deluge and turning them the same dull brown as the winter landscape. The first autumn, when Jill was still an infant, her busy mother had barely noticed the birds, or much of anything else. But by the second one, she had developed an oppressive apprehension regarding the annual migration. In some irrational corner of her psyche, the bright splashes of color were her only companions--inviting her to enjoy the day in the morning, singing her into relaxation in the evening, and keeping her company during the long, light spring and summer days. Their migration felt like desertion, and their impending absence from her life was a heavy burden. The last of them were going now, and as she and Jill watched them from the beach one afternoon in early November, her eyes were stinging with unshed tears. 

Lately, she cried much too often. 

"Flying." Pointing skyward, she tried to distract the child from her virtually ceaseless crawling. Jill was never still when she could be moving, and had to be watched every moment. There were times when Sarah found it difficult to remember what it had been like to do anything but watch Jill crawl. Pink-skinned, surprisingly plump considering their situation, and perennially filthy, Jill found more than enough to occupy her days and much too much, in her mother's weary estimation, to occupy her mouth. Now she plopped on her round behind and gazed up at the sky. Blue-eyed still, her pale hair wispy around her ears, she formed the word with her mouth and then brought it out in triumph. 

"Frine!" 

Irritable and bored as she was, Sarah dropped to the sand and hugged her. At fifteen months, Jill showed no inclination to walk; since she could get around just fine without it, she appeared disinclined to try it. But she had been repeating single words for a month, and Sarah had noticed that even Spock was impressed. No doubt Jill had noticed it too. Like any healthy small child, she knew what buttons to push to get her strokes, and pushed them every chance she got. 

"They're flying south for the winter." Taking the child on her lap, Sarah tried to continue the conversation, what little there was of it. There was not much conversation to be had elsewhere. Jill repeated the word, but she was already wiggling. _Why can't she sit still when I hold her?_ Sarah wondered. It was clear that the child liked to be held, but whenever Sarah held her, she couldn't seem to keep still. 

"Frine," she repeated, examining her mother's fingers. And then she was off again--pat, pat, pat along the beach. The sand was damp and mushy from an early morning rain; this would be the fourth miniature tunic-and-trousers set she had soiled today. Sarah felt her irritation rising, and quelled it. What did it matter? If she didn't have Jill to feed and change and talk to, what else would there be to do on this godforsaken.... 

Rising, she ambled down the beach after the scuttling baby, her gaze wandering toward the small structure where Spock had been working all day. What else indeed? He had renovated and refinished everything he could get his hands on, and now he was renovating the kennel where the Bounders had kept their research animals, the remains of which the two of them had had to dispose of. The present tenants were also casualties of the holocaust, but in an even more tragic way. 

"We should put it down," Sarah had said in despair, cradling the first-found wingless bird in her hands. A healthy, bright-eyed young bird, with stumps where its wings should have been. 

"No," Spock had said. "Life is its right." Knowing his people's views on the subject, she had agreed. The bird was still there, still bright-eyed on the perch that Spock had made for it with the Bounders' primitive tools. But it had never sung a note.... 

One more creature whose life would never be the same. 

"Jill," she said abruptly, "let's go home. It's time for dinner." 

"Ho," Jill agreed. She couldn't say "dinner" yet, but she knew what it was. 

  


After the initial peace offering, Spock had not permitted Sarah to prepare his food. "That would be...inappropriate," he had insisted when she had questioned him about it, but he would not tell her why. Since he rarely ate anything that could be called a meal, the opportunity for her to prepare it did not often arise, and so the question was seldom open to debate even if Sarah had chosen to debate it. He was a Vulcan, and so she did not doubt that he was eating enough to sustain his life and maintain his health as well as possible in the circumstances. If he chose to do it in solitary, arguing would do her no good. 

While she and Jill ate their supper of nuts and fruit, Spock changed venue from the kennel to the house. The window frames needed replacing, he had told her a few weeks before. He would do it before winter. Although it was widely believed that Vulcans cannot lie, she did not believe him. He had even less to occupy his time than she had, and was obviously determined to fix everything fixable, whether it was broken or not. 

This evening he chose to work at the window closest to the table, which at first surprised Sarah. But difficult as it was to believe, she soon realized that he had done it to be near Jill. The baby "talked" all the time--in few words that were recognizable as such, but in a conversational tone and with an uncanny habit of looking at the person she was talking to from time to time, as though that person could understand every word. As she mashed, mushed, and annihilated an object that both Spock and Sarah now referred to as a banana, she kept up a constant prattle to Spock, as though she were telling him a long story. Oddly enough, he too would look up from time to time, meet Jill's gaze, and occasionally nod as though to encourage the child to continue. 

"Are you in telepathic contact with her?" Sarah had asked when she observed the phenomenon. 

"No," he had answered, and volunteered nothing more. So much for _that_ conversation. But since his silent responses appeared to encourage Jill as much as her mother's verbal responses did, Sarah was grateful that he cared to give them. What he actually felt for the child, if anything, she had no idea, since he seldom touched her. 

After she had removed the third of the banana that had ended up on Jill's hands and face, the two of them went for another "walk." This time, Jill chose to do her crawling in the vicinity of Spock's labors. Once, when he stepped back while removing the old window frame, the baby was directly behind him. 

"Jill," he said quietly, "please move away. I do not wish to step on you." To Sarah's surprise, Jill complied. 

"You're so patient with her," she said wistfully. "I would have snapped at her, but you never raise your voice." 

"That would serve no purpose." Setting the old frame against the wall, he grasped the new one and raised it until it was opposite the opening. 

"Aren't you going to tell me what a rotten mother I am?" she goaded him, desperate to keep the conversation going. Like a kid with a crush, she thought in disgust, blushing a little as she remembered a graphic, erotic dream she had had about him only the night before. And sometimes even in the daytime-- 

"That would be inaccurate," he said expressionlessly, and after an instant of embarassed confusion she realized that he was simply answering her question. Holding the frame opposite the window opening, he aligned them in the air. "And if it were not, what purpose would there be in my criticizing you?" 

"To let off steam. To pass the time. To feel superior. Whatever excuses people find to bicker with each other." Or sexual tension, she thought. Damn him. _Damn_ him. 

He set the frame down and reached for sand paper. "I will not play war games with you." 

"Did you ever 'play war games' with _anyone_?" 

After a moment, he said, "Yes." 

Surprised, she blurted, "Why?" 

A faint sigh. "He enjoyed it. I accommodated." 

"But _you_ didn't enjoy it, of course." 

A short silence. Then, wistfully: "Perhaps I did." But before she could recover from the mild shock this admission elicited, he continued, "And perhaps you may wish to tell me what you are angry about. This time." 

"Nothing you can help me with, Mister Spock." He could not possibly know, she thought. Vulcans didn't get horny between Times. Or so it was said; T'Loreth had not discussed that subject with her. Could he possibly know that she watched him move gracefully about his work and fantasized him inside her, thrusting? "You can't solve every problem, you know. You'll just have to learn to live with your limitations." 

"As will you." Apparently unaware of her open-mouthed stare, he went on sanding down the window frame, his back to her still. "As you once pointed out, it is just your luck to be marooned on this planet with a prim and proper Vulcan." 

"Don't you _wish_." 

It was a blind shot, born of surprise and confusion. She knew without question that he would not read her mind even if he could. How, then, had he guessed? 

Then she realized that he had gone completely still for an instant after she spoke. 

It was only an instant, and then he went on with his work. "I cannot be of service to you." For once, there was no superiority in his tone. It was a simple statement of fact. 

The hell with it. What's to lose? Nowhere to go from here but up. "Do you really think," she asked quietly, "that 'service' is all I want from you?" 

"Whatever you want, I cannot give it to you. The sooner you accept that, the easier it will be for both of us." 

"Not can't. Won't." 

"You do not understand." 

"You're right. I don't. Are you telling me that you can't perform as a human male?" 

He turned then, eyes slitted, fury barely controlled. "In context, how does a service differ from a performance?" 

"Oh, you _really_ know how to get to me, don't you." 

Her outburst triggered the control mechanism. She could almost see it snap into place. "I regret that I spoke inappropriately." 

" _Screw_ inappropriate!" 

"In context, your vocabulary is particularly--" 

"Shut _up_!" Even in her agitation, she had been keeping Jill in her peripheral vision. Satisfied that the child was, for once, not in motion but sitting quietly in the sand, she dropped to the ground from the edge of the porch where she had been sitting, pulled her knees up to her chin, buried her face, and sobbed inconsolably, rocking back and forth in her rage and anguish. _I want to go home. Oh, please--I want to go home...._ After a moment, Spock glanced at Jill and then returned to his work. 

A few feet away, the baby began to rock in empathy, her feet stuck straight out before her in the sand, her face pale and drawn, her blue eyes upturned to watch another flock of migrating birds swerve against the darkening sky as though of one mind. "Fline ho," she whispered, sing-song. "Fline ho. Fline ho...." 

  


Sarah slept restlessly that night. Just before dawn, deeply aware of the stillness where birdsong had been only a few days before, she lay listening as Spock moved with virtual silence from his room to the kitchen table. Did he ever sleep all night long, she wondered as she pulled on her clothes. Joining him at the table, where he sat with his hands folded before a cup of tea made from native aromatic leaves, she folded her hands in kind. 

"Do you think we can ever be friends?" The question started out calmly enough, but by the time she finished it, her voice was trembling. "I might not be able to survive this if we can't be friends. I can do without sex if I have to, but I can't do without _people_." 

After a moment, he said, "You have your child." It was not a reprimand. He sounded puzzled. 

"Yes. Well...." _Sometimes I think I'll go crazy...._ But you could only say something like that to a friend. "I mean grown-up people. Spock, why won't you let me fix food for you? You do just about everything around here because Jill takes so much of my time. That's about the only thing I can do for _you_ , and you won't let me do it. I feel--like I'm no use to you. Just a burden." Silence. "All right. Forget why. But a friend--needs to be able to do things for a friend. Please?" 

"I cannot permit that...." _Not finished. Don't interrupt. Let him finish._ "...Yet," he finished, and then added with an obvious effort: "I shall consider it." 

"Thank you." In the pale, pre-dawn light, she saw this eyebrows rise. "For listening. For not saying no." 

Her sense of well-being, of having accomplished a first step, lasted precisely six point five hours. While Jill was supposedly taking her nap, Sarah brought up on the computer screen the Bounders' specimen catalog, to which she and Spock had been intermittently adding records. It wasn't the work she wanted to be doing, but it was close enough. Losing track of the time, she realized that Jill should have been awake by now, went searching for her, and discovered her in the greenhouse with an incredible amount of good black dirt in her hair, on her clothes, on her chin, and smeared all over the floor. 

"Bad girl!" was Sarah's first nearly instinctive reaction. _I was doing something fun for a change, and you had to go and--_

Jill howled, hurt to the core. 

"Don't _do_ that to her." Spock remained in the doorway, but his voice, although not particularly loud, filled the room. Jill, sensing an ally, crawled to him and hid her face against his leg, her first outraged howl moderating to an I-really-need-sympathy snuffle. To Sarah's incredulous surprise, Spock picked the child up and held her in the crook of his arm. Jill, equally surprised, forgot to snuffle and gazed up at his face, her thumb in her mouth. "A child this age is not _bad_ unless you make her believe she is," Spock continued in a more moderate tone. Then confusion set in. He even forgot to control it. "Sarah, I regret that I interfered. It is not my place--" 

"No. No." Still half stunned, trying to analyze his reaction, Sarah moved over to hold out her arms, and Jill came to her without hesitation. "It's all right. It's fine. Really." What in the world had made him react that way? 

That evening, as they cleaned up the greenhouse together, she asked him. 

"Who was it who made you feel 'bad'? Your father or your mother?" 

It was a test, and she knew he knew it. If he shut her out now, they would have to start all over again. Scrubbing dirt off the floor, she waited. 

"Neither," he said finally. "It was...the Father. Do you...perhaps you are unaware--" 

"You mean it was the Vulcan father image, not the m-- not the person." 

"Indeed." The word itself was a sigh. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" 

"No." 

"Okay, then I want to talk." Still scrubbing, she forged on. Either he was there, or he wasn't. "She's my baby, and she's so beautiful I could eat her up. But sometimes I think I will go _crazy_ if I don't get some time away from her." 

"Away?" he repeated blankly. 

"Away. But there is no 'away,' right? If I could even take _her_ away, it would help. Goddamn it, Spock, if she would only get up and _walk_. Then she and I could _go_ somewhere and _do_ things." 

"What things?" 

" _I_ don't know! Just things." 

"That is not--" But he stopped himself. 

"Right. It's not. But it's true just the same." 

"Do you regret choosing to have her?" 

"No. Everything is always so black-and-white to you." 

"How did you anticipate dealing with this problem if--on Vulcan?" 

"I expected to be part of an Extended. Everybody takes care of everybody's kids. I didn't expect to be so isolated, so _trapped_." 

"We are both trapped," he said flatly. 

"Thanks a heap." But that was not the way she wanted the conversation to go. " _You_ can get away. You can fly in the 'craft. I can't even take her for a walk." 

"What would you expect of your child's father if he were here?" 

_You are here. He is not_. But she held back the sarcastic echo of his own words long ago. Some other time. He wasn't nearly ready for that yet. Sitting back on her heels, she wiped her forehead with her wrist. "Give a damn, Spock. Just give a damn." 

By the next morning, he had coaxed the recycler into making her a back pack just big enough to hold a delighted little girl who, nevertheless, could not sit still when she was that close to her mother. 

  


High on peace and good will, Sarah determined to change. With Jill on her back, she hunted for smooth, colorful stones and bright-hued leaves to decorate their table. The tablecloth that she had found in a closet but never used was draped over the table, and while Jill was asleep in the afternoon, Sarah created a centerpiece which came crashing to the floor when Jill tried to pull herself up on the cloth. 

"Damn you! Can't I have _anything_ I want?" Then there was a mark on Jill's cheek, slowly reddening, and Sarah and her child stared at each other, both trembling, both appalled, neither able to make a sound. 

"Perhaps," came Spock's voice as though from a great distance, "I would do well not to leave her alone with you." 

"Why do I always have to _work around her_?" 

Dropping to the floor beside them, Spock took her by the shoulders and shook her once, quit hard. "What alternative do you have?" he demanded, and lowered his hands. At the apex of the triangle, Jill began to rock back and forth, back and forth, still making no sound. When Sarah took her in her arms, the child burrowed against her as though she wanted to hide from the world. 

"Why didn't you pick her up this time?" Sarah asked, numb. 

"That would have been...unwise." He rose, turned, and left the room. Only the memory of his blazing eyes remained as Sarah continued to hold her now weeping child, knowing that if Jill had gone to Spock, it would have been a long time before she would have sought comfort in her mother's arms again. 

And if he had not known that, somehow, what would have become of them? 

For a day, Jill and her mother concentrated on making peace with one another. Sarah was patient and kind, and Jill consented to being walked around the room, given that this clumsy, inefficient activity appeared to please her mother inordinately. At bath time, when Sarah's back was turned, she dunked a rag doll that Sarah had made for her out of diapers into the bath water, and announced proudly, "Baff!" When Sarah, exhausted beyond impatience, refused to let her take the sodden wretch to bed with her, she howled herself to sleep. 

Spock sat at the computer, apparently oblivious. 

Holding the oozing doll, Sarah wandered out onto the beach alone, thinking logical thoughts one after the other. She could get rid of the doll and make another. That was easy enough. Jill would never know the difference. Would she? Still wandering aimlessly, she realized that she had come to the edge of the forest, and that there were two full moons tonight, one high and one low. 

She could bury the doll. Just as she and Spock had buried their clothing on such a night as this. 

Sitting down, she held the wet cloth in her hands, and it seemed that somehow it was her child she was wanting to bury. Utterly exhausted, she bowed her head, cradling the doll as she had cradled the deformed bird. 

"I will never hit a child again," she whispered over and over to the two silent moons and the flickering double shadows. "I will never hit a child again." Finally, rising, she laid the doll in the crotch of a tree, slowly retraced her steps to the house, and sat down at the table. 

Spock rose and went into the kitchen. Sarah put her head down on her wrists. When he returned, she heard him set something on the table near her elbow. Without speaking, he returned to the computer. 

Raising her head, she saw that he had made her a cup of tea. 

_A friend needs to be able to do things for a friend_. 

A wave of sexual longing passed through her, so strong that it frightened her. _No, no, NO!_ she thought, staring at the steaming cup. _Don't let it get mixed up with anything else. What will I do if sex gets mixed up with something else?_ Staring now at the back of his sleek head, she contemplated the life she would have if she were to fall in love with this man. No--with this Vulcan. Contemplated it long and thoroughly as she sipped her tea, while he sat with his back to her, typing at the keyboard. 

She had control of little about her life. But that was something that was never, never going to happen to her. 

"I accept your gift," she said aloud, noting absently that there was no emotion in her voice except gratitude. "Will you accept mine?" He turned, but his face was in shadow. "When the harvest is in, I think we should all have a real meal. Together. A harvest feast. I think we should eat like pigs, with the tablecloth on, and let Jill smear it up if she wants to. And I think you should let me fix the meal. Can you deal with that?" 

The shadow seemed to smile faintly. "Ritual has great importance in the lives of all sapient beings." 

"Good. And goodnight." Rising, she took herself to bed, deeply convinced that she could change her life, and would. 

Nothing like _that_ was ever going to happen to _her_. 

  


The next time Sarah caught Jill in the greenhouse, she sat down next to her on the floor. It was very evident what Jill expected her to do; would she ever forget being hit? Sarah drew her onto her lap, and when Jill began to rock, Sarah rocked too. 

"No, little one. I'm never going to hit you again." 

"Muvver hurt," murmured Jill, her movements becoming more agitated. 

"No. I won't ever do it again. I promise." 

"No!" Jill echoed. Twisting around, filthy, urgently wanting to be understood, she laid her grimy hand on Sarah's chest, " _Muvver_ hurt!" She touched Sarah's cheek, then withdrew her hand, leaving a smear of black dirt. "Muvver...bad?" she asked hesitantly, fingering the cheek again. 

"No." Sarah sighed. "Mother got dirty, just like Jill. The earth is good. Look." Picking up a handful, she smoothed it soothingly over the child's arms, and then her own. "The earth is good. See?" 

"Erf good," Jill repeated, sing-song. She leaned back, relaxed, against her mother. "Erf _good_." She had stopped rocking, and was not even wiggling. 

When they returned to the living room, another cup of tea was waiting. 

  


After their harvest feast, Spock asked, "Would you like me to clean this up?" He indicated the table, complete with cloth thoroughly smeared with peas and carrots. 

"Know what I'd really like?" she asked, smiling. Picking Jill up, she deposited her in Spock's ambivalent arms. "I'd like you to take this lovely little girl for a long walk. I don't want to see either of you for an hour. Can you deal with _that_?" 

"If you wish." But he quickly set Jill on her feet. 

"Kake a walk," Jill echoed approvingly, and they were off, Spock with his arms folded, Jill already moving as fast on her feet as she ever had on her knees. 

They had had their meal in the late afternoon, directly after Jill's nap, so that she would not be too tired to enjoy it with them. By the time Sarah had cleared the debris, the sun had almost set, and she stood on the porch, savoring the coolness of the air after the long, hot summer, and wondering idly where Spock and Jill might have gone. Then she heard voices from the side of the house. Moving to the corner, she paused, watching and listening. 

"Your father is the captain of a starship," Spock was saying. He sat cross-legged on the ground, facing the delighted baby, who had never had this much undivided attention from him before. His manner was intent, but not somber. He was, Sarah realized with a small shock, thoroughly enjoying himself. "Say 'captain.'" Jill's lips moved, but the challenge was too much for her. Spock made several more attempts, to no avail. Then: "Say 'Yes, sir.'" Articulating precisely: "'Yes-sir.'" 

"Esser!" The baby threw up her arms, utterly delighted with herself. And Spock laughed. Sarah could barely hear him. There was a brief, unfamiliar rumbling, and then silence. But if he felt regret, he did not show it. Sitting there in the dusk with her child, he smiled a smile that Sarah had never seen before. 

Making no sound, she moved back to the porch and sat on the edge of it, hugging herself. It was chilly now, with a light breeze coming over the lake. But she was on fire. 

"What am I going to do?" she whispered. Lying there night after night alone, feeling like this? "Can't love him. Can't get it all mixed up. Can't love _him_. What am I going to do...." 

In the kennel beyond Spock and Jill, a wingless bird began to sing.  
 

  


### Home Before Home: Their Third Winter

When he was a little boy on Vulcan, his mother had always loved the rain. It did not seem logical to him, and he had told her so. But she had smiled and said, "Well, Spock, you're right. It's not logical." That was not a satisfactory answer; Vulcans argue only for reasons, and if one's mother would not give one a reason to argue, it followed that one could not argue. One could, however, ask her why, provided that one did not expect an answer one could understand. 

"It makes me feel happy," she had answered. "It makes me feel at home." 

The infrequent torrential rains on his home planet did not make him feel at home. They made him feel sticky, as though he wanted to shake the unfamiliar humidity off his hands and feet and lick himself to wash off the wet, which was not logical either. But his mother, whose distant ancestors were not feline, insisted that rain made her feel happy. "It's so soothing," she would say, standing at the window to watch the grayness that obscured the red sun and set everything awash. "Just listen...." 

He stood at the window now, secure in the knowledge that the frames he had replaced one point two five years ago would not leak as the original frames had done, and watched Sarah and Jill "going for a splash" in the brightly colored ponchos that Sarah had made for them. ("It's yellow!" she had exclaimed in delight that first summer when they found the lightweight tarpaulin that the Earthbounders had left rolled up in the kennel, its intended use a mystery at the time. "We can cut it up for mackinaws." Why she would want to do that had been difficult for him to understand until this winter, when Jill was old enough to go for a splash. But he understood now.) Watching them from the window, he listened to the soft, monotonous drumming of the rain on the roof of the bungalow, found it pleasant to be inside where it was dry, and also to be watching the two outside. Wet hair tangled on their shoulders, they ran barefoot and laughing, hand in hand, two bright spots of sunshine in silver-gray. If the rain had reminded Amanda of home in those long-gone days of his childhood, Sarah and Jill reminded him of home now--here in the only home any of them would probably ever have. 

He suppressed a sigh, controlled his recurring melancholy, and turned from the window to lay a fire for their return. Feline-descended they were not, but it had been a long winter, and he knew from experience how much they would both enjoy the fire when they came in from their splash. 

Maintaining a supply of dry wood was difficult, but difficult tasks passed the time, and so he sought them out and (if truth were told) spent more time than was justified in their accomplishment. Belatedly, he suspected that the tarp had been used to cover the woodpile in winter; what remained of it was still used for that purpose, and he had also found a number of nooks and crannies in each of the buildings where wood could be piled, in neat stacks to conserve space, each time there were enough sunny days in tandem to dry it out. The cutting and stacking were time-consuming enough to give him an additional reason to look forward to the appearance of the sun. And Sarah's restlessness and Jill's incessant energy ensured that there would be enough excursions into the winter rain to justify what Sarah called "squirreling away" the wood for the fireplace. However, the necessity of arranging the stacks in layers, each one fitted together like a puzzle, was debatable. Occasionally he would wonder if this behavior were obsessive--until he considered the minimal alternatives available during the rainy season. Put succinctly, much of the time he had nothing else to do. 

And so he took his time laying the fire, arranging the kindling and larger pieces to please his sense of order, only marginally aware of how much he was anticipating Sarah's pleasure at seeing the fire when she came in. When he realized the extent of his anticipation of that event, he took pains to subdue it. It was not logical to take inordinate pleasure in such inconsequential events, especially in light of the fact that this one took place nearly every day. 

Curious phenomenon, that. Never having lived in close proximity to another being, he had been unaware of the dynamics of the resultant personal interaction. Down the long tunnel of memory, he heard her saying, "Give a damn, Spock. Just give a damn." Could this, perhaps, be what she meant--this quiet delight that rose in him when she came through the door and saw the fire already burning? Such a small thing to mean so much to a human. 

_Giving her pleasure pleases me_ said a heavily muffled voice deep inside him. But he chose to disregard it as irrelevant. 

As he went on meticulously laying the fire, he remembered how much she had changed in the three years since they had come to Tara. Grown up, he supposed one could call it, although that would be over-simplification in the extreme. She was complex enough to defy categorization, and to attempt to do so was to invite catastrophe. Even now, it baffled him that one person's inconsistencies could exasperate and even infuriate him to the edge of control, only to fling him to the opposite extreme (respect? affection?) within hours or even within moments. Of late, however, the extremes were less perceptible as such, and for that he was grateful. There had been danger to Jill in her mother's emotional excesses, and danger to the Image in Sarah's once-evident preoccupation with physical gratification. He knew that he would not have given in to her, would never have betrayed the Image. Even now, with the Time approaching in one point three years, he felt secure in the fact that the problem was solved before it became a problem. Sarah was now well able to survive and protect Jill alone; he would simply take the 'craft far enough away to prevent him from returning on foot before he died, land it, and irreparably damage the mechanism while he was still sane enough to do it. The logical simplicity of the plan pleased him; for the first time in months he thought of the Father, and how much this solution would have pleased him as well. 

Satisfied, he lit the fire, sat back on his heels, and stared into the flames as Sarah often did. No Vulcan would enjoy this atavistic preoccupation. And yet he indulged for a moment, perhaps because there was no one there to see him do it. And his thoughts wandered on. 

In any case, the proximate problem of Sarah's unfulfilled appetites now appeared to have been solved as well--by her rather than by him, and without his being forced into an arbitrary position of outright rejection. If only he could be as sure that she would-- 

Despair, sudden and overwhelming, engulfed him, and he bowed his head against the onslaught. 

_I know he's coming back for me. Why doesn't he_ do _it?_

Control. Gain control. Jim could not be dead. He would know it if Jim were dead. 

_But why doesn't he come back?_

He forced the fear and the confusion and, yes, the anger under control. Anger against what? Fate? What would be, would be. Control. Slowly he raised his head and took a deep breath as the soothing flames rose higher. Jim would come back. It might not be soon enough for him. But surely--surely it would be soon enough for Jill. 

It was only when he thought of Jill never knowing her father that his logically simple plan for his own demise faltered and threatened to collapse. Who, then, would tell her again and again that her father was the captain of a starship? He knew that she did not understand the words, but he knew also that she somehow understood how important those words were. For how long? Who would keep the memory alive for her? It was not logical to expect Sarah to do that. She had known Jim for only a few days, had been involved in a transient relationship that he still could not begin to understand. What then would become of the promise he himself had made on the night of Jill's birth--to see to it that she never forgot the father she had never met? Only a halfling would have made such an illogical vow. The Father.... But he was not the Father. He was not anyone's father, least of all Jill's.... 

For a moment he was filled with a bittersweet longing that he had not permitted himself to feel since he received Sarah's child into his hands and lost for a moment the precious emotional distance that Sarah had tried so hard to help him preserve. The muffled voice inside him, which he could never quite silence, had whispered, _I wish it were mine._

Not this baby. 

My baby. 

And...hers? 

At that moment, Sarah and Jill burst into the room, laughing and scattering raindrops. Seeing the fire, Sarah paused and drew in her breath--hair molded to her head, face streaked with rain, eyes alight with pleasure. And he thought, _You are beautiful_ , and cut down the thought and buried it. 

So much danger here.... 

Even as he controlled, he saw Sarah mute her pleasure rather than embarrass him. "That's wonderful," she said quietly. "Look, Jill. Spock made us a fire." 

"He a'ways does," Jill informed her happily, and the two of them discarded their dripping yellow mackinaws in a pile on the floor. Spock concentrated on wondering why Sarah found it necessary to do that, thereby successfully banishing the most disquieting thoughts he had had in months. 

That evening, he worked again on the cradle he was making for Jill's doll. She had long since given up "bathing" everything Sarah made for her that remotely resembled a baby, and was now inordinately fond of a diaper-doll that Sarah has stuffed with grass and drawn a face for. The doll's name was Dolly. To Jill, there were only three given names on the world, and Sarah's suggestions of names had no meaning for her. Both Sarah and Spock were disturbed by this; Jill's unfamiliarity with basic human conventions continually reminded them that without memories of another life, she was much more isolated than they were. Attempting to counteract this, Sarah had formed the habit of telling what she called "family stories" while they sat by the fire in the evenings. This evening, the story involved Sarah and her cousin Chris, and a certain escapade that appeared to amuse and sadden her at the same time. Memories should not sadden us, Spock thought. Memories should kept in a safe place to be enjoyed and savored. In fantasy, he saw himself playing chess with Jim of an evening, with McCoy lounging nearby, glass in hand. He could not savor that memory, but only yearn for it. So much for Vulcan advice to humans. Had it not always been so? And why had he not learned that elementary fact until it was too late? 

As usual, Jill was full of questions. "What's Christmas?" "What's a stocking?" "What's cookie dough?" Sarah explained, brushing her hair in the firelight. Spock worked on the cradle, firmly refusing to notice how the light played on her hair as she brushed. "What's a cuzzin?" Jill asked finally. 

"A cousin is...someone whose mother is your father's sister, or whose father is your mother's brother, or--" 

"What's a sister?" 

"A little girl," Sarah explained, obviously aware that she was far out of her depth in what should have been very shallow water, "who has the same mother and--" 

"Can I have one?" Jill asked eagerly. 

Sarah's mouth opened, but no sound came. 

"Look, Jill." Rising without haste, Spock took the small, unfinished cradle in his hands and sat on the floor next to the child. He showed her how Dolly would fit into the cradle, and explained how he would sand it down until it was so smooth that Dolly would not snag on it as she did now. Jill looked at the cradle and then at his hands, appearing to be equally fascinated with both. Sarah, he had noticed, often watched his hands too, and he wondered why both of them appeared to enjoy doing that. A hand, as T'Pau would say, is a hand. In any case, Jill was successfully diverted from her former conversational path, and when he looked up at Sarah, she mouthed a silent _Thank you_. 

After the child was in bed, they sat before the fire in companionable silence for a long time--Sarah on the floor, arms around her knees, staring into the flames, and Spock sanding the cradle, which was already taking on a pleasing sheen. 

"How can we explain things to her," Sarah asked finally, "when she has no referents?" There was frustration in her voice, and something like despair. 

"We shall continue to tell her 'family stories.'" 

"We?" 

Spock raised an eyebrow. "I was not left on a doorstep." But in his mind, he saw Jim. And McCoy. And all the others.... 

Sarah smiled briefly. "No. But I was. Almost." 

"You?" 

She told him then, for the first time. About the parents who were killed when she was a child. About the aunt and uncle on her mother's side who took her in and raised her among their children as one of their own. "Except I wasn't," she said wistfully. "Not really." And about her paternal grandfather, who was "the only person who was really mine." Sitting before the fire, staring into it as Spock had done earlier, she became for him, for the first time, a person with a life--a life that had existed before Tara, before James Kirk. It was damp outside the fire's circle, and she had thrown a blanket around her shoulders in lieu of a shawl. The blanket slipped off one shoulder, but she want on talking, unaware. He listened, fascinated, drinking in the newness of her. "He told me about my father, his son. About my mother too, but he didn't know her very well. And about my grandmother." And she told him then about her alien grandmother who had stowed away on a spaceship because her planet was not a safe place to be. "She used to say that her parents chose their kinsmen unwisely." It was a quotation. He could surmise that from the way she said it. And everything fell into place at last. 

Zarabeth. 

At least she had had a child of her own. Before. And that child had been Sarah's grandmother. 

It had been several years since he had seen in retrospect Sarah's face as she bent over the Tiffany lamp, marveling at its beauty--the same face he had seen when Zarabeth bent over the fire in her icebound cave. But now he knew that it was not the same face at all. Astonished, he realized that it had been a very long time indeed since he had seen Zarabeth when he looked at Sarah. 

"What are you think--" she began, and stopped. "I'm sorry. That's not something you ask a Vulcan." 

"Why did you wish to ask it?" Something inside said _Danger_. But he ignored it. This was a friend. They could not survive together, even for another one point three years, unless they were friends. 

"You looked so...I don't know. Puzzled. Relieved." She smiled, and her hair shone gold in the firelight. "Spock, you really have no idea how transparent you are." 

Stop. 

He laid the cradle aside and rose, breaking the intimacy of the moment with what seemed to him to be remarkable tact and delicacy. "You were fortunate to have your grandfather nearby during that time." Leaning over, he pulled the blanket up around her shoulder again. A gesture of friendship, so that she would not feel rejected. "The rain has stopped. I shall check on the animals in the kennel." She nodded--calm, undisturbed, and he went out into the night gratified that they two were better friends than they had been before. 

  


Alone before the fire, Sarah hid her face against her drawn-up knees. Such a beautiful evening, and now it was all falling apart--because she wanted to make love with him so badly that she could hardly stand it. 

"Be satisfied with what you have," she whispered, clenching her hands to fists. "It doesn't get any better than this." Tears slipped down her cheeks, and she rubbed them away with the heels of her hands, still whispering. "I can do this. I can _do_ this." 

By the time he returned, she was dry-eyed and apparently calm. But although she had been feeling sleepily content while they talked, she remained wide awake, staring into the fire, for a long time after he went to his room .  


  


### Home Before Home: Their Last Spring

"April is the cruelest month," Sarah informed Jill one drizzly morning while they were taking their splash in the rain instead of going for the swim they had both looked forward to. Now that the child was almost four, her mother had gradually fallen into the habit of saying what was on her mind, trusting Jill to question her if she didn't understand. Jill appeared to enjoy listening to her talk as much as Sarah enjoyed talking, and her questions frequently led to interesting discussions. 

Jill had been hopping and jumping, splattering as much wet sand on both of them as she could. Now she took another hop, landed on both feet with a sodden thud, squinted up at her mother and asked, "What's cruel?" Then she hopped again, not about to be distracted from serious pursuits while her mother thought about answers. 

Sarah and Spock had discussed more than once the necessity of answering Jill's incessant questions carefully and deliberately. It was clear to both of them that the child was unusually intelligent, but had absolutely no context in which to place much of what they said to her and most of what they said to one another. Family relationships still eluded her, and abstractions with which she had no experience were particularly challenging to both adults, for they knew only too well that what they told her would probably be the only information she ever got. 

Now, as delighted that Jill was able to extract a root word from an unknown superlative (How could a child learn to do that when she had only heard two people talk in her entire life?) as she was with the obvious fact that Jill had no idea what "cruel" meant, Sarah pondered as she walked. Finally she said, "It means hurting someone and not caring that you hurt them." 

"How can April be cruel? It's not a person. It's just a month." Splat. Jill landed in a sizable puddle and wiggled her bare toes in the mushy sand at the bottom. Little hedonist, Sarah thought affectionately. Nature or nurture? Not hard to figure that one out. But that line of thought was unproductive, and she had taught herself not to pursue it. 

"Oh--it's just something you do when you're mad at a...a thing. You make a person out of it in your mind so you can be mad at it. Justify being mad at it, I mean." 

"What's 'justify'?" 

"Have a reason to." 

Grinning now: "If we make April sit in the corner, will it quit raining and so we can go swimming?" 

Laughing, Sarah put her arm around the child and hugged her as they walked. "Oh, Jilly, what would I do without you?" 

"You wouldn't laugh much," said Jill. "Why doesn't Spock laugh much?" 

Sarah sighed. "He was taught not to." 

"Why?" 

Context, Sarah thought. What possible context...? "His people...his father...believed it was better not to." 

"Did my father believe it was better not to?" 

"No, little one. He didn't." 

"What's a father?" 

They walked on in silence, Jill no longer hopping in the sand. She had often seen animals mating, and was fully knowledgeable about the results. But Spock and Sarah had agreed not to use the word "father" with her in that context. "The fathers never come around," Sarah had insisted when Spock demurred on logical grounds. "Is that what you want her to think a father is?" They had then had a logical discussion about alternative verbalizations of the concept, and had finally agreed to the use of the words "male," "female," and "impregnate," only to have Jill announce at breakfast several days later that a male chedo was impregnating a female on the window sill. 

"If he could," Sarah said finally, "your father would take care of you the way Spock and I do." 

"Why can't he?" 

"Because no one knows we're here, Jill. You remember. Spock told you." 

"Why doesn't anybody know we're here?" But Jill was hopping and splashing again. The question had been answered before, several times, and she obviously did not expect to understand the answer any better than she had the last time. 

"Because we have no way of telling them," Sarah said wistfully. 

"Do you wish we did?" 

_I wouldn't_ , Sarah thought, realizing it for the first time. _I wouldn't care if they ever found us if he'd only--_ "Yes." 

"Then I wish they would too," Jill said comfortingly, and took her hand. 

The rain stopped and they swam blissfully in the buff, Sarah trying not to wonder if Spock might be watching her from the forest where he had gone to cut wood to be dried in the sun for next winter. If he ever watched, she would be the last one to know about it. 

"Why do you swim so hard?" Jill asked her as they lay on the beach together in the sun. Jill swam well, but Sarah invariably swam around her in a large circle, keeping her in sight without keeping her company. 

"I need the exercise." 

"Why?" 

"So I can sleep at night." 

"You cry sometimes when you're asleep." 

"Oh, Jill." They were both lying prone, and Sarah raised herself on her elbows to she could stroke the child's hair back from her face. "Wake me up when I do that, okay?" 

"Won't you mind?" Jill asked, obviously relieved. 

"No. I won't mind at all." 

"What are those?" 

"Breasts." 

"What are they for?" 

"To feed babies with. Just like the chedo feeds her babies." 

"Can we get a baby too?" 

"Maybe when the Time comes," Sarah answered without thinking, and then drew in her breath. 

"What's wrong?" 

"I capitalized Time in my mind," Sarah answered, awed at the strength of her own feelings. 

A chosen child. Spock's child. And hers. 

"You _what_?" 

"Never mind. I was just thinking...." 

"Who will be the baby's mother?" 

"I will," Sarah said softly, and then tensed, expecting the obvious. 

"Who will be the baby's Spock?" 

Smiling now, Sarah rested her chin on her hands. "Spock will." 

"Oh, _good_!" Jill wriggled with delight. "Can I tell him right away?" 

"No." It was lucky, Sarah thought, that Jill was used to waiting while adults thought over what they were going to say to her. "You can't tell him that we talked about this. I have to tell him. Promise?" 

"Why?" Irate. Deprived. 

"Because I say so." The last resort, to which she seldom resorted. Jill knew better than to argue with _Because I say so_. "Promise?" 

"Do you have to justify him about it?" Jill asked. 

After a moment, Sarah said, "You can be downright scary." 

"Me?" 

"You haven't promised." Among the three of them, a promise was something that was never broken. 

Jill sighed. "I promise. When can we get the baby?" 

Jim had known about the Kalifee, Sarah calculated. They were on the _Enterprise_ together--what? Two or three years before Tara? Soon, then. Very soon. "Not soon," she said, knowing that to Jill, "soon" meant tomorrow if not this afternoon. "Babies are...much bigger than chedos. It takes a while to get one ready." 

"Big enough to play with?" Jill asked longingly. 

"Yes." 

"If you have to justify him about it, tell him I really, really want one. Do you really want one?" 

"Yes," said Sarah. "I really do." 

After a while, they dressed and wandered back up the beach together, holding hands, Sarah still bemused and preoccupied. As they neared the bungalow, Jill stopped and pointed. "There's the creature again." 

Looking in the direction Jill was pointing, Sarah spied the giant ant at the edge of the forest across the lake and forced herself out of her reverie. No closer than the last time, but this time it had only been two or three weeks since she had come to watch them. 

That evening, as she and Spock returned from their nightly walk on the beach, she said, "Why are you so concerned about her? She never comes anywhere near us." 

"You must not be lulled into a false sense of security, Sarah." How little he patronized her any more, she noticed with relief. He actually talked to her as though they were equals. As though they were friends. "Justifying" him would not be easy. But when the Time came.... "We know very little about the creature except that she can cure and that she can kill. If I should not be here, you may have to protect Jill yourself." 

_Yes_ , she thought. _I thought that's what you had in mind. What are you planning, my dear? Nothing messy. Nothing emotional. Go off where we can't find you and leave us a note? We'll see about that._ Sitting on the edge of the porch, she watched him looking off into the forest, hands behind his back. "You could sit down, you know." 

He turned to look at her, hands still behind his back. Then he moved to sit beside her, elbows on his knees, hands clasped between them. Good, she thought. That's a start. "Do you still think I'm going to make a move on you?" 

She had expected him to withdraw, at least emotionally. Instead, he turned his head to look at her and said, "No." 

"I'm glad you've come to trust me." 

"One trusts a friend." 

"Thank you." 

After a moment, he looked away. 

"You plan to go off and die alone when the Time comes, don't you." Resigned, she watched him go tense. But it had to happen, and the sooner the better. She did not know how much time they had left. "Spock, you have no right to make a decision like that without consulting me." 

"I have the right," he said ominously, "to expect you to respect my privacy." 

"Oh, come off it!" So much for the Vulcan Way. Screw the Vulcan Way. "This isn't about privacy. This is about life and death--or it will be sooner or later. Would you care to tell me which?" 

It had been months since she had seen his eyes narrowed in anger. "'Making a move' would seem to take variant forms." 

"You are a son of a bitch," she said without raising her voice, "and if I hadn't expected you to say something like that, it just might have worked." She had the satisfaction of seeing his eyebrows fly, but she was beyond stopping, and she had not yet played what she knew was her trump card. "I've heard you with Jill. Who do you think is going to make Jim real to her if you're dead? I barely knew the man." And without waiting for an answer, she got up and went into the bungalow. 

_Now_ , she thought. _Think that one over, and then we'll see about privacy_. 

Jill was asleep on one of the cots, long since separated and placed side-by-side on the floor in deference to the child's mobility. Sarah lay down on the other one, not bothering to undress. Exhilarated and still angry, she knew that she would not sleep soon. But it was good to feel angry, good to feel anything toward him without having to repress it. 

_Think that one over, and then we'll see_. 

Some time during the hours before she finally fell asleep, it occurred to her that she could not program the Genetic Synthesizer without a blood sample from him. But even that did not daunt her. Feeling that anything was possible, she finally fell asleep, knowing that Jill would not have to wake her tonight. 

  


She woke at dawn and went into the vegetable garden to check on the sprouts. There would be no rain today, she thought as she walked barefoot through the garden, carefully avoiding the tiny green shoots that were pushing up through the dirt. It was going to be a beautiful day, and Jill would have her swim after breakfast. 

Bending over, she picked up one of the myriad flower-ghosts that floated overland every spring. Dandelions, she called them, although they appeared to have been shaped more like violets when they were in their prime. Now she took one in her palm, and sensing Spock's presence, she turned. 

"I wish I could see one of these when it was more than a memory," she said wistfully. She raised her eyes to meet his. Bleak. He looked almost ill, she thought. It was a good thing she hadn't waited. This was going to take a while. She blew the ghost from her palm and watched it settle at his feet. "Like the past. Dust and ashes." Meeting his gaze again, she smiled and raised her eyebrows, Vulcan-like. 

"Don't you ever stay mad?" he asked. 

The question was so unexpected that she lost her smile and simply stared. "Not unless I work at it." The lightening sky was behind him, and she could not see his face clearly. But his stance suggested near-exhaustion. Still fighting? Or was he ready to give up? "This isn't really about sex, you know. That's not the least common denominator." 

"There is a probability of 99.99 percent" he said wearily, "that you are about to tell me what is." 

"Our humanity." 

He turned aside a little, head drooping, and sighed. "Must it always come to that?" 

"It's the only thing we have in _common_ , Spock!" 

"If I lose the Image, I lose my self." Quiet desperation there. "You do not understand what it means to be Vulcan." 

"Granted." She squinted a little, trying to see his face clearly. He did not sound like himself at all. "But there's a 99.99 percent probability that you understand what it means to be human a lot more than you're letting on." 

"Why haven't you tried to seduce me?" 

Well, go with the flow. "It's hard to explain." _Because you're so innocent_. No, that wouldn't do at all. But how else could she explain the certainty that unwilling seduction would violate him at a level she might never reach again? Believing with all her heart that she was incapable of doing that to him, she said finally, "People can rape one another's emotions as well as their bodies." Silence. "Now I suppose you're going to tell me that Vulcans don't have emotions." 

"We have emotions," he said as though reciting a lesson. "But we control them instead of permitting them to control us." 

"Humans can't do that." 

"But, Sarah--" Sheer exasperation. "'That' is precisely what you have just told me you are doing!" 

Throwing caution aside, she nevertheless approached him slowly. "No, don't pull away. I just want to feel your forehead. My God, Spock. You're burning up! Is it--" 

"No. It is not the Time." He straightened his shoulders and sighed again. "I am unwell, but it will pass." 

"How long have you had a fever?" 

Reluctantly: "Three point six seven days." 

"Anything else?" He swallowed. "Sore throat? Swollen glands?" 

"Sarah--" He stepped away and raised his hand. "Enough. It will pass." 

"You don't know that. You should rest." 

"I have something I must do first. Then I will rest if you wish it." 

"I wish it," she said firmly. "And I want to examine you too." 

"If you wish." 

"Promise?" 

He smiled then--an exhausted half-smile that frightened her more than it reassured her. "I promise." And then he was off, walking toward the hovercraft with a step that was much less steady than usual. 

When he returned half an hour later, he almost made it to the porch before he collapsed. 

None of the three of them had ever been sick, and Jill was terrified. Trying to reassure her, Sarah forced herself into her professional mode out of sheer psychological self-preservation. This was a different world for both of them, and she had only the contents of her traveling medikit with which to treat him. Unknowns compounded by inadequacies. And yet-- _You are a physician, Sarah_. Damn right. "Jill," she said quietly, supporting most of Spock's weight as she helped him to his room, "don't stand in front of me, little one. You can help Spock by not getting in my way. Stay in your room, please, so I know where you are. Because I _say_ so!" 

His clothing was drenched with sweat, in itself mute testimony to the severity of his illness, for the day was balmy and the breeze cool. By the time she had stripped him and covered him with both their blankets, he was shivering violently. Taking medical tricorder readings, she discovered what she had expected: high temperature, raw throat, neck glands badly swollen, a faint yellow rash all over his body. Could be anything. All she could be sure of was that he had not brought it to Tara with him. 

"Can you trance?" she asked him. 

"Perhaps." It was only a whisper, and she didn't have his complete attention. "I dropped something." It was a plea. Could he be delirious? "Where did I drop it?" 

"Tell me what it is, and I'll look for it." Wringing out a wet cloth, she wiped his face, remembering how he had cared for her while she was in labor. "I'm going to take a blood sample now." A twinge of guilt passed through her; she would have her sample after all, and much sooner than she had anticipated. But with so many unknowns, she had to have it in order to determine whether she could treat him with the limited pharmacopoeia at her disposal. "Can you rest a little?" But he had already tranced. 

"Jill," she called softly, fearing to leave his side. There was a scurrying sound in the hallway, and Jill was at the door. "Bring me that little case on the shelf in our closet." No questions. In a moment, the child was back, medikit in hand. And something else. 

"Spock dropped this when you were pulling him in here," Jill whispered. Staring at the gaunt, sallow face above the blankets, she laid a flower in Sarah's hand. 

It was a violet--soft, moist, and very much alive. 

When she could take her eyes off it, she looked at Spock. He was awake, and barely conscious. 

"I accept your gift of self," she said quietly, wondering what that gift might have cost him. 

Feverish eyes, half closed. She had to lean close to hear him whisper, "Someone should bring you flowers every day." And it came to her that he did not know who she was. The flower, no doubt, was for her. But the words.... 

" _I remind you of someone_." 

_"That was long ago--longer than you would believe...."_ "Can't you maintain the trance?" she asked. 

He did not answer, but closed his eyes and drifted into a light sleep. 

"What's wrong with him?" Jill whispered. 

"He's very sick." 

"What's sick?" 

Putting her arm around the child, Sarah drew her close. "What you see, little one. Just what you see. I can't explain it either." 

"When will he get unsick?" 

They kept vigil together throughout the long spring afternoon, sitting on the floor beside the futon. Outside, the birds--even the wingless ones in the kennel affirmed it--joined in chorus, announcing to all the world that they had returned to affirm their venue and stake out their territory. Sarah barely heard them. Her analysis showed that the virus that was ravaging Spock's body was very much at home in copper-based blood--another malignant gift, no doubt, from the Kiso. There was nothing in her kit that could touch it. 

Relieved that both she and her child were immune, she allowed Jill to remain in the room with her, glad of her company and knowing that it was better to keep her where she could not come to harm out of sight. 

Eventually, Jill fell asleep, her cheek pillowed on Dolly. It grew dark in the room, and the birdsong fell to a soft murmur. Armstrong was peering over the window sill when Spock opened his eyes. There was recognition in them, but she did not believe that it was for her. 

"Just rest," she said softly, bathing his face again. 

"Don't...leave...me." He could barely form the words. 

"I won't." 

Incredibly, he raised his hand to touch her face. "Don't...." There was a terrible urgency in him now. 

"I won't. I promise." 

"Sarah...promise...don't...let...her...forget...Jim." 

The nameless ghost of his past fled before four and a half years of reality, and she lay down beside him and took him in her arms. There was a furnace inside him, but she wasn't going to let go of him until it was gone. Not now. "We won't," she whispered, stroking his hair. "We'll never let her forget him. Don't worry. Go to sleep. She's never going to forget him...." 

In the darkest part of the night, the fever broke and he fell into a deep, natural sleep. 

She sat beside him on the floor for a while, watching his gaunt face in the light of the two moons whose shadows no longer disoriented her. This was her world now. The course of the rest of her life had been set, and she no longer had any regrets. When Spock recovered, she knew that he would probably remember little of what he had said while he was so ill, and that the whole route would have to be retraced, perhaps several times. All that mattered now was that whether they left Tara or spent the rest of their lives there, they would do it together. 

Near dawn, she took the sleepy Jill to bed, assuring her that Spock was now very unsick. Then, as a new sun rose over the white beach, she took the blood sample and the Genetic Synthesizer from her medikit and began to do her programming, looking up from time to time to notice how beautiful he was and wonder why she had never really noticed it before.

They came out of hibernation in a misty early spring rain, blinking in the gray natural light and shivering a little, feeling shaved of their winter pelts. The sweaters and pants they had worn for three months lay in two piles on the damp floor of the cave. Spock was again in uniform, although his Starfleet-issue shirt and pants looked as though they had been cycled for a man who outweighed him by a dozen pounds. Sarah wore her travel jumpsuit, slightly stretched across breasts and belly, flapping everywhere else. Her shoes felt tight too, but looking up at real sky for the first time, she forgot about shoes. The wind was damp and cool, and even Spock was shivering a little. Above them, at last, was open sky. 

They stood on the black rock shelf outside the cave, simply breathing. Spock had used the tricorder as soon as he cracked the door open, but now its warbling was silent. Sarah did not ask him if the radiation level was safe; she knew that he would not have allowed her outside the cave if it wasn't. Three months alone with him had taught her that unnecessary questions didn't get answers. Instead she said, "It smells wonderful," and accepted his silence as the heartfelt assent she knew he could not express in words. 

After a time she said, "Let's go for a ride." 

The hovercraft still sat on the ledge. And a good thing, she thought. It was difficult to imagine how they would have climbed down the Tower from this height. 

He did not answer, but moved toward the vehicle and inspected it visually and with the tricorder, and then motioned her into it. Taking off, she experienced a moment of vertigo; she had never liked heights, and the valley floor and Tower's Ring seemed very far below--the one brown and sodden after weeks of winter rains, the other reflecting a woolly sky instead of the pale green one Sarah remembered so vividly from the day of the holocaust. As Spock steered the craft around the Tower, she made herself look down at the world. Spock showed no inclination to view the remains of Tower City even though they both knew it was near enough, and she was grateful. Later they would have to look at it and come to terms with it. But now they were free, more free than they had been in months. That was all she cared to think about at the moment-- 

"My _God!_ " she gasped. "Is that a _house_ down there?" 

Looking down through the silvery curtain of light drizzle, she could make out the shape of a building near the beach that divided the lake from the surrounding forest. As Spock brought the craft lower she studied the structure intently, feeling her pulse race even as it once had when, as a child, she had spied a small, bright coin in the dirt at the edge of the pavement during a walk in a park. The building was indeed bright in comparison with its surroundings. Even in the rain, or perhaps because of it, the sides and roof looked smooth and shiny. Around it someone had planted a row of saplings, now trembling and bowing in the damp wind. There were two much smaller structures close by: one made of the same material as the larger building, the other of what appeared to be transparent aluminum. 

"Fascinating." It was the first time Spock had made a sound since they had left the cave. Even in her excitement, Sarah was relieved to hear him speak at last. "They are porto-structures." 

"Why would somebody build something out here? They could bubble it up faster and a lot cheaper." 

"I do not know," he answered, sounding as though he did. But then, he always sounded that way, she thought, even when he didn't know diddly-squat. 

"You don't suppose...." She left the question unfinished, not daring to voice her hope. 

"Anyone who was not protected as we were would have long since died," Spock said flatly. He landed the craft on the beach just as a trickle of watery sunlight ventured through the clouds. Before them, the front of the porto gleamed slick in the faint sunlight. The structure was only one story high, although the roof came to a shallow peak. In the middle of the right-hand slope, an apparently hollow rectangle with no purpose that Sarah could divine projected upward toward the sky. The windows were shuttered and the door appeared to be firmly closed, perhaps even locked. "Remain here." 

"But--" 

He jumped lightly to the ground and spun to face her in one continuous motion. " _Remain here._ " His gaze locked with hers. So seldom had their eyes met during their time in the cave that she was startled by the blackness of his. Or could he be angry? 

"Don't give me orders," she said, her voice firm but with no particular emphasis. "I am not one of your crew." 

"I will not debate with you. Remain here." And turning on his heel, he walked rapidly toward the porto. 

_My name is Sarah,_ she thought, shivering once more. _My name is Sarah, damn you._ But even in her thoughts she could not muster much irritation toward him anymore. Taciturn, uncommunicative, occasionally even sullen, he had helped her through the worst three months of her life, showing at times an impersonal but ongoing kindness that she had grown to appreciate more than she resented his detachment. Yet as the days and weeks passed, she had become more and more aware that he had never once called her by her given name.... 

The door had opened at a touch, and he now stood in the doorway, scanning with his tricorder. Finally, when she was almost unable to bear her newly aroused excitement and curiosity, he said, "Come, then." The warbling ceased and he stepped inside. 

She scrambled out of the craft and stumbled in the soft white sand, mud-gray now from the rain. Muttering, "The hell with it," she kicked off the uncomfortable shoes and ran across the sand, loving the feel of something besides stone floor against her feet. Crossing the narrow porch that ran the width of the front of the building, she paused in the doorway. Spock was standing just inside, looking around. But the shuttered windows admitted none of the dull afternoon outside, and she could see very little of the room. 

"Aren't there any lights?" Dumb question. If there were lights, they would have gone on as soon as Spock stepped inside. 

He stood still for a moment longer, frowning slightly, apparently trying to remember something. Then he reached toward the wall beside the door. There was a faint click, and a bright globe appeared in the middle of the ceiling. 

"What's _that?_ " she blurted. 

"That," he answered, "is an incandescent bulb." 

"Electricity?" 

"Indeed. The tricorder revealed the presence of a functioning solar generator at the rear of this structure." He pointed to the opposite wall of the room in which they stood. Looking in the direction he was pointing, she nodded absently and then caught her breath in delight. 

In the few moments since she had entered the room, she had been subliminally aware that the whole place had an odd feel to it, as though everything in it were identifiable and yet different enough from what she had expected to appear marginally unfamiliar. The furniture looked serviceable, even comfortable, yet bulky and squared off, with little or no attempt of the part of its makers to conform to bodily contours. On a table to her left was a box-like object which at first glance she took to be a computer. But next to the darkened screen were three oddly placed knobs with worn legends underneath them, one of which read, "On-Off-Vol." Primitive holo imager? There was no chair pushed under the table; instead, there was a cabinet there, on top of which was another box, black this time, a flat rectangular cube the width of the table, with another legend stenciled along the front edge of the top: DOLBY STEREO PLAY AND RECORD. Some kind of an entertainment center, no doubt. She had been about to reach for the "On-Off-Vol." knob, certain that Spock would have warned her if the tricorder had indicated potential danger, when he had distracted her by pointing across the room. 

There on a small round table was an antique lamp, its shade constructed of irregular pieces of stained glass that threw multi-shaped spots of color on the wall behind. In the long gray time she had lived on this world, the glowing artifact was the most beautiful thing she had seen since she arrived. 

"A Tiffany lamp," she whispered, awed, and approached it with a reverence that the computer-box had completely failed to stir in her. "Oh, Spock--look!" Cupping her hands around the shade without touching it, she leaned over the glowing light to admire it more closely and then looked up at him. "Isn't it lovely?" 

He was looking down, his face set. He said nothing. 

_Now what did I do?_ But it was useless to ask, she knew. 

A moment later, she had forgotten her disappointment at being unable to share her pleasure with him. On the wall beside the door, between the two front windows, was a moon-faced electric clock with numbers around its perimeter. She had seen one like it only once before, on a cultural history tape, and she knew now what she suspected Spock had known all along. 

"Where's the bathroom?" she asked, determined to verify her suspicion. 

As she had expected, it bore little resemblance to the bathrooms she knew, with their recessed basins and other modern aesthetic and space-saving features. Instead, she saw a cramped room with a floor of motley tile, cold and faintly damp against her bare feet, and fixtures that loomed out of the walls like angular porcelain polar bears emerging from an ice age. At the top left side of the drum-like toilet tank, there was a small horizontal handle. 

"They were Bounders!" 

"So it would seem." But Spock appeared unaware of her mixed feelings of extreme relief that the habitat was functional and mild chagrin that whoever had built it was a member of an esoteric cult. Showing more enthusiasm than she had seen him express in three months, he approached the toilet, removed the heavy tank lid, and set it on the sink with a chilly clank. "Observe." She moved to stand next to him and peer down into the tank, telling herself that this had better be as fascinating as his demeanor suggested. The inside walls were streaked with slimy green, and an unpleasant black ball floated between them. But the pronouncement she had anticipated was indeed forthcoming, and she suppressed a sigh. "A machine with no power source," he continued, and flushed. The toilet made a sound like a large fish coughing, and the black ball sought the receding surface of the water with a small _plop_ as the bowl began to fill. Clear water. Not the chemical muck that they had been one of their many mixed blessings in the cave.... Uh-oh. 

"How did they clean the bowl?" she asked, and then noticed for the first time a long-handled brush standing in a holder on the floor. She glanced at Spock, who raised an eyebrow, replaced the tank lid on the now silent toilet, and walked out, leaving her alone with the polar bears and the brush. _Oh, really?_ she thought. _We'll see about that_. 

There were two small bedrooms, a relief to her as well as to him, she was sure; now they would both have the privacy that had been denied them in the cave. The first room contained two narrow cots, one mounted on top of the other by means of a wooden frame that included a ladder leading to the upper cot. Two thin mattresses were supported by metal springs that creaked when she pressed on the top mattress. _Beats hell out of a sleeping bag,_ she thought, firmly rejecting the tactile image of a soft mattress that rose in her mind. When she came to the second bedroom, she thought for one giddy moment that her phantasm had become real; the bed, which filled most of the room, consisted of a sinfully thick mattress on a low wooden frame. Spock had paused in the doorway, eyeing the object she coveted with borderline distrust. Good. Maybe he'd prefer the other-- As she pressed her hand into the mattress, it sloshed audibly, and she squealed. 

"There's _water_ in there!" 

"Indeed." Spock approached the bed and gave it a firmer squeeze than she had, causing an alarming undulation under the surface. "Do you wish to sleep in this room?" he asked hopefully. 

"Um, no. No thanks." She smiled cheerily at him as she passed him on the way out. _If I get to clean the head, chum, you get to sleep in the ocean._

As they returned to the living room, she said uneasily, "They must have been a family." She did not want to think about the personal things she had seen in the bedrooms: possessions, clothing, towels, toys, abandoned where they lay, as though their owners were only gone for the day. And yet the dust lay three months thick. Later, she thought. Later. Too much for now. "I wonder what they were doing out here. In space, I mean, if they were--are--were so crazy about the pre-space era." Later, she thought. Later I can handle it better. She glanced at him to see if he had noticed her stumbling over the verb tense, but he was oblivious. Looking in the direction of his gaze, she saw why. 

"Computer," she commanded expectantly, moving across the room to join him in front of yet another darkened screen. Nothing happened. Spock reached around behind the screen and there was another click. After a few moments of examining the initial display, which looked to Sarah like the beginning of a child's game, he typed a few characters on the keyboard and murmured something uncomplimentary. Expecting, from what he had said, to see a graphic of stone knives and bear skins, she saw instead something far less amusing. 

"It _has_ to mean eighty gigs," she said incredulously. 

"It is a computer--of sorts. Computers invariably mean precisely what they say." 

"Eighty _megs?_ But where are the memory banks?" He explained. "Hardisk? Hard _disk_? Where is it?" He explained again, typing as he talked. A database appeared, the data unimaginatively displayed in two-dimensional rectangles. Only peripherally aware of what they were doing, they both drew up chairs and sat in front of the screen as the watery sunlight dimmed and turned faintly gold where it slanted across the floor from the open door. Finally, she said, "Biological research station?" He nodded. New screens of the specimen catalog came and went as the sky darkened and the light on the floor grayed and then disappeared. The sky was almost black and the room swathed in shadow when she said, "They were scientists. How could they choose to work with this primitive equipment?" 

"A specimen catalog does not require sophisticated equipment, and Earthbounders enjoy flaunting their convictions." He sighed. "They--I believe you might say that they make a career out of acting weird." The emphasis on _you_ was faint but perceptible. 

Hiding a smile, she rose, rotated her shoulders to ease the stiffness in her back, and went to the door, realizing as she did so that she had never before seen Tara at night. The rain had stopped and the clear sky was completely dark now, dotted by a few stars. Both moons had risen, one full and one a barely visible crescent, giving the scene an eerie unreality that bought a coldness to her spirit and the sting of tears to her eyes. She had occasionally been homesick on Vulcan, but on Vulcan home was only four days away and there was always someone to talk to, something interesting going on. Here.... She closed the door, and saw that a packet of paper was hanging on the back of it. 

Someone had made the artifact by hand, sewing the sheets together with brightly colored variegated yarn. On the top sheet was a grid, seven squares wide. There were three squares in the first row, seven in each of the next four rows, and one lone square in the sixth, at the bottom left corner of the grid. The squares were numbered from one to thirty-one. Across the top of the sheet, someone had hand-lettered the word "November." 

Old Calendar. But on Tara? "Spock, look at this." 

He inspected, flipped pages, appeared to be doing calculations in his head. "It is a variation of the Gregorian calendar, but adjusted for the planetary year of 378 days. One day has been added to each month except February, which has thirty days. Ingenious." 

"But it's the end of winter here. Not November." 

"This calendar has not been used for three months," he said quietly, and pointed to a hand-written notation on the sixth. Leaning forward, she read it. 

_T. City._

Just gone for the day. 

"Let's go back to the cave," she said. "Just for tonight. We can move here in the morning. When it's light?" It was a plea. "Let's--" 

"Stop." He had never touched her before, but now he grasped both her arms and shook her a little. "There are no ghosts here." His dark eyes met hers directly now, and she saw no condescension, no censure, only something very like despair. 

"But there are," she whispered. 

"Are you afraid?" 

"No." She bowed her head and the tears flowed silently. Feeling his hands tighten, she leaned her forehead against his chest and rested there until the tears stopped. "But I don't want to stay here tonight." 

  


When she woke in the morning, she was alone in the cave for the first time since the holocaust. 

_No panic,_ she thought, forcing herself to walk, not run, to the entrance and push it open. Sunlight, and air clear and cool. She let out the breath she had been holding without realizing it, and looked around. Ledge empty. Hovercraft gone. What in the world could he be up to? 

When he returned, he gave no explanation, and she did not ask him for one. If they were going to live together until they were rescued, they would have to do it with respect for one another's privacy. But--there was a subtle eagerness about him, an urgency quickly suppressed. Something he wanted her to see? "Do you wish to return to the porto now?" he asked as soon as they had had breakfast. 

"Can't be too soon for me." 

The place was truly beautiful, she decided as their craft settled onto the beach. Shelter that would allow them to see the sky, and the sun. The air was still cool, but the sun was warm and the forest was alive with sound. She did not want to go inside, but she knew that there was work to do before they made the house their own, and not very pleasant work. 

But it had all been done. 

No wrinkled towels hung in the bathroom now, and no toys littered the smaller bedroom where one cot hung above the other. The clothing was gone from the closets, and the family photographs that she had not wanted to examine closely had disappeared from the small bureau in the other bedroom. There must have been a broom somewhere, for the place had been swept. There was no dust anywhere. 

Without looking at him, she went to the door and closed it halfway so that she could see the calendar. The top sheet said "February," and nothing was written in any of the squares. 

"Thank you," she said, not turning, expecting an answer full of obligations. But when she looked around, he was gone. 

  


There was no food in the house. 

Distracted by the primitive quaintness of the Earthbounders' habitat, she had not at first realized that one thing they could not survive without simply did not exist there. The stores in the cave had been heavily depleted; most of the Thermocans were empty and buried, and the few that were left contained meat that she would need for its protein during her pregnancy, but that she was sure Spock would not touch. The rest was negligible: powdered milk that would last perhaps another month or two; packages of long, tasteless strings of pasta; the least appetizing of the vegetables; some dried fruit; a few sweets. And all of the food in the porto had been contaminated by radiation and had to be thrown away. 

The small transparent structure was a greenhouse, but it was full of tangled weeds and dead flowers. There was real dirt there, however--black dirt that looked as though it had been brought from Earth. Outside, between the porto and the edge of the forest, was a plot of ground that had once been cleared but was now tangled and overgrown. They suspected that it had been a vegetable garden, and as soon as they had moved in they began to clear it. There were no uncontaminated seedlings in the house, but the governor's family had stored some in the cave--enough for one season's planting of a vegetable garden, and a few selected flower seeds and bulbs. 

Spring came in with a rush of warm wind and an abundance of sunlight, and they made haste to take advantage of it. By an almost unspoken agreement, they decided that the greenhouse would be kept for flowers and the vegetables would be planted outside. 

Sarah had expected Spock to argue with her about it. Knowing that starvation lurked just over their horizon, she nevertheless felt an unreasoning determination that the flowers would be a flash of pure extravagance in their otherwise need-driven lives. "I know they're impractical," she explained apologetically. "But with this weather, the vegetables are going to grow as fast as the weeds outside, and we really don't need the greenhouse for them." Spock merely nodded, and often in the evenings he would join her there, exhibiting an unexpected expertise and depth of knowledge. How had he learned so much about growing things, she wondered. Did they teach you how to grow flowers on starships? But still loath to question him unless it was necessary, she never asked. 

The loose tunics and pants provided by the clothing cycler were more than enough protection against the increasingly balmy weather, and the machine also provided rough sheets and towels from the same recycled product. The Earthbounders, always careful not to let their personal enthusiasms pollute the environment, had also buried a solid waste reducer in the foundation beneath the bathroom; it and the recycler were their only concessions to technological progress, but they had made the right choices. And so the lake remained pristine, lapping clear and clean at the white beach that began a few feet from their door. "No suds in the surf, no poop in the pond," Sarah commented irreverently. No response from Spock, but that was not unusual. He spoke when spoken to but rarely spontaneously, remaining her willing coworker but almost never her companion. 

Yet he did seem a bit more relaxed, she thought. When the waterbed had begun to leak several weeks after they arrived, he had promptly drained it with the garden hose and substituted a futon he had found rolled up in a closet. The change in his sleeping arrangement had been good for him; small talk was still beyond him, but when Sarah thought it necessary to brief him on his part in the coming delivery of the baby, he was more than willing to participate in that conversation. Reassured, she was grateful that he was quite able to listen attentively when the situation demanded it. He now knew what to expect, and what was expected of him. 

As spring moved into summer, her child grew and became increasingly active within her. Doing regular self-scans, Sarah knew that her own body was borderline malnourished because of the small amount that she ate; it sometimes seemed that she thought of nothing but food, for both she and Spock were now carefully rationing their supplies until their garden yielded its first crop. But the baby was reassuringly healthy, and the pregnancy uneventful. As balmy spring became white hot summer, Sarah was confined more often to the house, and her boredom became exquisite. 

The computer, its capabilities upgraded dramatically after Spock had cannibalized his communicator as well as the air purifier and the waste reducer from the cave, now provided access to a diverting array of games and recreational reading that Eustace George and his family had stored there on tape. But when Spock was in the house, she seldom had access to the computer. Doggedly, even obsessively, he continued to attempt to devise a communications program that would permit him to reach the starships he was sure must be within hailing distance. Knowing that their exile would not end until he was successful, Sarah tried to repress the impulse to inquire, "When do I get a turn?" as he spent hour after hour typing away in front of the console, which still would not answer to a vocal command. One positive result of his compulsive dialog with uncooperative technology was that he would occasionally talk to her about it afterwards. But she spent many a hot afternoon indolently watching the Earthbounders' tapes on their primitive equipment. 

Believing him to be oblivious to her activities, she was surprised to see him turn from his work when she switched off the screen in disgust late one afternoon. Trying to think of something intellectual and uplifting that might start a conversation with him, she could only sigh and shake her head. 

"Same stupid misunderstandings, same stock characters, practically the same story over and over. I don't know how anyone could watch these things, much less take them offworld for entertainment." 

"There are many such tapes on the _Enterprise_ as well." 

"It must have cost a small fortune to have all these Two-D formatted like this. What do you suppose the attraction is?" 

If she had intended to draw him out on the subject of human literary aberrations, she was unsuccessful. Instead, he frowned and said thoughtfully, "The males are all non-humans." 

"It's just a convention. The romance novel, twenty-third-century style." Grimacing, Sarah abandoned her slumped position in the soft, enfolding couch, and pulled herself up to sit on the edge of the cushion instead. More and more of late, her backbone objected to the contours of the living room furniture. But it was no longer possible to pull her knees up under her chin as she watched. Half teasing, she went on: "Exotic alien worlds, alien lover, the basic metaphor of the genre for centuries. Goes all the way back to _Jane Eyre_." 

"Mr. Rochester was not...alien." 

"Oh--" Rubbing tired eyes, Sarah sighed and tried to fudge. "I don't know." Conversation or no, she did not feel up to explaining this particular metaphor to the literal Mr. Spock. 

"Did you perceive Jim Kirk as alien?" he asked. 

Jolted out of her lethargy, she dropped her hands from her face and returned his gaze. He did not appear self-conscious, only curious. It was the kind of question that one friend might ask another. 

"No," she answered honestly, bemused by the glow of retrospective affection that the admission elicited in her. "Jim was...familiar." 

She had intended no double entendre, and immediately wished she could take the word back. To her relief, he arched one eyebrow, and his eyes seemed to smile. But then he turned back to the computer and began to type again as though there had never been an interruption. 

_Let it go,_ she thought. _Don't push your luck._ The Taran equivalent of a housefly buzzed across her ear and settled on her arm. The lake murmured against the beach, a window shade flapped, the toilet was running again. The room was stifling. "Spock, _talk_ to me. Please?" She slapped at the fly, but it flew away unscathed. 

He stopped typing, but did not turn. She knew what he would say before he said it. "What do you wish to talk about?" 

"Nothing in particular. I just feel so--isolated." Her voice broke. 

"You are indulging in self-pity." She knew that he had half turned to face her, but she could not look at him now, although his tone was even and not accusatory. "That serves no purpose." 

"I don't want sympathy." 

"What, then?" Polite. Patient. Marginally condescending. Where was the friend she had glimpsed a moment ago? 

"I don't know how to explain it." Tired, tired, tired. "Forget it." 

"There is a significant probability that length of our isolation here is inversely proportional to the amount of time I spend attempting to communicate with a passing starship. If there is an urgent matter you wish to discuss--" 

"I said forget it." 

"Very well." He turned back to the keyboard. 

"How often does a ship pass close enough to hear a signal from here?" 

The tapping stopped. Silence. Then: "I have not been able to establish a viable communication channel." 

"That makes two of us." She rose and moved toward her bedroom. He might not be all human, but he knew how to lay on the guilt. 

It was late afternoon, the hottest part of the day. She lay on her side, too big these last few weeks to sleep on her stomach, wishing she could raise the shade and catch a vagrant breeze off the lake but knowing that the room would become a furnace if she did. Briefly she toyed with the idea of working in the greenhouse until she could justify eating again. But lately Spock had been working there in the evenings, and that joint endeavor appeared to be the only thing they could enjoy doing together. Even a lecture on companion planting was better than silence. And it was no longer a mystery to her that he knew so much about growing flowers. His human mother, he had told her one evening, had a greenhouse on Vulcan. Have to get him to talk more about his mother and how she coped with _her_ isolation. Once they got off this godforsaken planet, some of it might be useful in patient counseling.... 

Only slightly tired, but having nothing better to do, she dozed, sweating, until the sun had set and it was time to prepare her meager meal. When she came again to the living room, Spock was still at the computer. 

_How often does a ship pass close enough...?_ Her own question echoed in her mind, and for the first time it occurred to her that he had not answered it. But this didn't seem like a good time to press the matter. 

Later that evening, as they weeded together in the relative cool of the greenhouse, she said, "You didn't answer my question this afternoon. How often does a ship pass close enough to pick up a signal from here?" 

"The proximity of the normal shipping lanes is insufficient for a weak signal to reach a merchant vessel from this sector." 

"That's not what I asked." Twice, now. Dread touched her, black like space itself. "What about exploratory ships like the _Enterprise_?" 

"There have been no Starfleet vessels within range for the past four point three Earth months." 

"You mean...since you started monitoring, there hasn't been even _one_ Starfleet vessel in this sector?" He nodded, his gaze still on his work. "But--this is the Centaurus system. We're practically on top of home plate. Where _are_ they all?" 

"I do not know." He looked up then, and the bleakness in his eyes surprised and horrified her. 

"Jim will come back for you." She did not know where the words came from, but as soon as she said them, she knew that they were the right ones. 

"That is not logical." Yet his despair was gone as quickly as it had come. 

"Neither is he." The horror receded to a shadow, and then it was gone. 

"I know." He smiled briefly, fleetingly, and then resumed his digging in home soil. 

  


As the summer inferno roared on (White sky. Blistering winds. No clouds. Would it never rain again?), she realized that the greenhouse garden was their refuge from fear, their taste of home, while the vegetable garden was their albatross. The day that they tore July off the back of the door and saw August--the month of the impending birth--for the first time, they kept to the house all day and ventured out only at sunset to continue their endless hosing down of the fruits of their labors, the only assurance they had of surviving the drowning rains of winter if the mysterious absence of Starfleet from Federation Sector One continued indefinitely. Stupid, she thought, sweat streaming down her face even though the sun had fallen beneath the horizon. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ not to have used the greenhouse for something they could eat. 

"Was that logical?" she demanded, wiping her forehead with her arm. "What in the world were you _thinking_ of to let me talk you into planting _flowers_ in there?" No answer. He seldom said a word while they were in the vegetable garden. His time to sulk, hers to shrill. "I'm sorry. I'm just so damn _sick_ of not being able to bend over or lie on my stomach or see my feet. Too bad you got stuck with the baggage when it wasn't even your fault." 

"That," he said stiffly, "is an interesting idiom. Were you forced?" 

It took her a moment to recover from her surprise that he had answered her, and another to realize that he was needling her in his own incomparable way for suggesting that Jim was the sole cause of her current predicament. Fury seized her, and the accumulated resentments of more than eight months made her struggle to her feet with surprising physical agility. She had used a number of obscenities in her life, and heard a few more. Now she used them all, arms under her belly as though she were holding it up, sweat streaming from every pore. At that moment, there were not enough words in any language to tell him what she thought of him. 

He dropped the hose and faced her in the lengthening shadows. Tall, slim, supple, and he wasn't even sweating. 

"Go inside." Hostility verging on contempt, and his eyes were jet black. 

"Don't give me _orders_ , you bastard!" 

"That is inaccurate, you are hysterical, and you are endangering your health and that of your child by remaining here." He picked up her and carried her into the house and to her room, surprising her so that she did not even struggle. "You are a _physician_ , Sarah." At the word "physician," he dropped her several inches onto the lower cot, so hard that she bounced. "I suggest that you behave like one." And he stalked out the door, slamming it behind him. 

She pulled herself up on her elbows, her misshapen body still awkwardly sprawled on the cot, and stared at the door, astounded, all her anger evaporated. 

_Sarah._

She lay down again, automatically turning on her side to support her protruding abdomen on the mattress, and contemplated the unexpected joy of being called by name for the first time in eight months. Nothing had changed, she knew. They were still stuck with each other, basically out of tune and maladjusted to one another's personalities, both raging silently against their isolation and their boredom and, yes, their fear that rescue would not come in time to save their lives. But she had a name now. 

The sun had dropped beneath the horizon by the time she pulled herself to her feet and lumbered into the kitchen. A cool breeze was blowing through the house, stirring the curtains and making the rooms livable again after the intense heat of the day. Famished, but refreshed by the temperature change, she turned toward the small kitchen and stopped to contemplate the sight of treasure unearthed in two piles on the edge of the sink. 

The seeds stored in the cave by the governor and his family had included growth-enhanced asparagus, able to be harvested the first season. Before their argument, Sarah and Spock had agreed that the some of the asparagus was ready to be picked, and that they might sample it that evening. She had heard Spock come into the house once while she lay on the bed contemplating intervening events, but had not remembered their joint decision until she saw the result of it on the drain board. About two pounds of it, she judged as she approached it--slowly, her excitement mounting as though she were a child again, contemplating her presents piled beneath the tree on Christmas morning. Scaly, unpeeled, and exuding a wet green smell that sent her senses reeling. Riches in the midst of poverty. She leaned close and inhaled as though she were gasping for air after nearly drowning. 

Neither of them had ever prepared a meal for the other, and she smiled briefly as she noted that their treasure had been divided as evenly as if he had counted the stalks. Yet without hesitation she pushed the two verdant piles together. To peel or not to peel? Her lifelong friend Mary Jones enjoyed cooking and had taught Sarah much of what she knew about meal preparation. The stalks would cook more thoroughly if they were peeled, but she and Spock needed every bit of nourishment they could get. Not to peel, then. She washed each stalk carefully, resisting the temptation to sample them, found a steamer among the jumble of cooking utensils in the cupboards, and paused briefly, wondering how much asparagus one could expect to steam at once; Mary's instructions had been given on the fly, and her student had been polite but fundamentally uninterested. But did it matter? She herself could cheerfully have consumed all of it raw, and she suspected that Spock felt the same. And it would be full dark soon. He might stop work in the garden at any time. 

While the vegetables steamed she set the table, now into the spirit of the occasion; until now, both of them had eaten when they were hungry, often out of the can, and simultaneously only when they happened to be hungry at the same time. Why? she wondered. Communal mealtimes are a social event, a time for the family.... She allowed the thought to trail off, standing still for a moment, gazing absently at the Tiffany lamp casting its multicolored glow over the waiting plates. If they were going to be marooned forever, it would make sense to establish communality and even ritual. Maybe they had both known that--and avoided it? Shaking herself out of her reverie, she moved back to the stove, wondering whether it was too soon to serve the food, when Spock appeared in the doorway. 

He stood still for a moment, and she thought that, rather than slim and supple, he now looked gaunt and just plain hungry. Was he salivating as she was? she wondered, and smiled. What did it matter? Rejoice in our differences, even if they aren't. 

"I accept your gift of self," he said quietly, in Vulcan, and she answered in kind. 

"The obligation was mine." Her smile turned wry as she remembered her earlier behavior. "Shall we?" And she handed him his plate. 

There were no uncontaminated seasonings or spices in the Earthbounders' habitat, much less anything resembling butter. And so they consumed the first fruit of their first harvest in its pristine state--stems, scales, and all. This required a good deal of chewing, but the results were so intensely pleasurable that Sarah had no regrets: it lasted longer this way. While they ate, Spock gave her one of his lectures, this time the one on canning and preserving, obviously long on theory supported by no practical experience at all. She listened, nodded from time to time, even asked a few questions. But knowing that he would be more than willing to repeat everything when the appropriate time came, she finally asked, "Don't you ever stay mad?" 

As she had anticipated, he frowned, and then began to speak. Before he could say anything, she added hastily, "I know. You don't _get_ mad. But don't you ever _stay_ mad?" Regretfully, she put what was probably the second- or third-last bite of asparagus into her mouth and chewed slowly, trying to make it last as long as possible. 

"That would be illogical." She sighed; there was, after all, no answer to that one. Then he went on without a pause. "Do you want to lose your child?" 

"No!" Shocked out of her amused exasperation, she almost choked. 

"Then perhaps you should discontinue working in the garden until after the child is born." 

"That's nonsense," she answered more calmly, but indistinctly, since her mouth was still partially full. "I'm not going to let you do all the work around here, so forget that idea." She swallowed and went on, speaking clearly now. "I'm not ill, Spock, and it wasn't hot out there. I would have been fine if I hadn't worked myself up." 

"Then why did you?" 

"Self-pity. You called it, remember?" Frowning now, she turned her gaze to the darkened window. "My life is a mess...." There was no movement from him, but she shifted her gaze back to him. "I'm sorry. Yours is too." He looked down, again frowning. "You shouldn't have to put up with a bitchy pregnant woman when it's not even...." He looked up then, raising one eyebrow, and she could not help smiling. "I'm sorry." 

His mild amusement vanished, and he sighed. "You have now said that twice in less than twelve point six seconds." 

"Damn it, _stop_ that!" She struck the table lightly, exasperated rather than angry, with her clenched fist, and then unclenched it. He was watching her, resigned, waiting. "Don't worry. I'm not going to apologize again. Does that make you happy? Never mind. Forget I asked." 

"Do you expect either of us to be happy here?" There was nothing accusatory in his tone; rather, she thought she heard a note of incredulity. 

"That would be totally illogical." Suddenly spent, she pushed her plate away and put her head down on her hands. 

"You must eat." 

"Don't give me...." Making herself stop, she sat up again and finished her asparagus. Just like a little kid, she thought. Finish you asparagus, Sarah. Now cold and stringy, it didn't taste as good as it had at first, possibly because, for the first time in days, she had had enough to satisfy her hunger. "Don't you resent this at all?" 

"I will do what I must." 

"That's not an answer. It's not even your child." 

"I am here. He is not." 

" _That's_ an answer?" 

"Indeed." 

She tried to read his expression in the lamplight, sensing disapproval but suspecting that she was projecting. _It was just a fun weekend, Spock. Nothing to get uptight about._ In fantasy, she went on justifying, trying to explain how it was. But the words would not come, and eventually he rose, went to the sink, washed his own plate and cup, and returned to the computer. So much for communality. And why bother to explain? Even if she said nothing more, he would never think less of Jim. Only of her. 

  


Sarah's labor began before dawn on a cool "August" morning, with Aldrin's full face just above the Tower's shoulder and Armstrong a pale crescent hovering near the lake's rim. It gave her some comfort, as she stood at her bedroom window and breathing deeply, that Aldrin cast very little light. The conflicting and overlapping shadows of the two moons were subtly disorienting, and she did not want to be disoriented now. When she had awakened with the first mild contraction, she had almost panicked because it was still night; the fear that her baby would be born in the dark was her irrational companion even after six months outside the cave. But now, looking out across the beach to the smooth surface of the lake, she laid her hand on her stomach and whispered, "It'll be light soon, little one. By the time you come, it'll be morning." 

Morning struck hotter and more humid than it had been for the previous two weeks. When Spock joined her in the kitchen just before dawn, Sarah was already sweating, sitting at the table with a cup of the coldest water that the faucet would produce. When he saw her at the table, he paused fractionally in the doorway and then stepped resolutely into the kitchen. "Do you require any assistance at this time?" he asked, and Sarah was about to respond with a flip answer when she was suddenly inundated with fear so strong that she could scarcely refrain from gasping. 

Fear? 

_But I'm not afraid_ , she thought, momentarily doubting her perceptions of her own feelings. And then she realized whose fear it was. 

It was gone in less than a second, like a flash of lightning illuminating an entire landscape which then disappeared completely. But years of experience had taught her that she was a natural empath, and she had occasionally experienced other people's emotions so strongly that they appeared for the moment to be her own. Out of respect for Spock's privacy, she had never tried to read him, and indeed had tried not to. That she had perceived his emotion anyway was indication enough of its strength. And yet it now appeared to be gone. Controlled, of course. But what was he afraid of? 

"No. I'm fine." Her first impulse was to give him a bright, falsely reassuring smile. But she knew at once that that would have been useless. _Don't fake anything. He won't be fooled._ Instead, she permitted herself the rueful grin that much more accurately revealed her true feelings. "Except I'm hungry." Slight frown. "No. I won't eat anything. But I have plenty to do. You remember. I told you how I was going to keep myself occupied while I'm in labor." 

He smiled faintly--puzzled pixie, eyebrows on the rise. "Are you sure you are able?" 

"Yes. Go on. Work on the computer. I'll show you what I've done when it's finished." 

Relief. Unmistakable. _What did you think? That I'd expect you to hold my hand all day?_

Spock had disposed of every trace of the Earthbounders' domestic activities, and Sarah had never learned to sew anyway. The recycler would be the only source of clothing for the baby, and she had asked Spock to teach her how to reprogram it for size, knowing that the loose tunics they wore would be easily adapted for a newborn's clothing, and that miniature resized towels would provide an adequate diaper substitute. Spock's well-ordered mind had persuasively indicated that the preparations should be made ahead of time, but Sarah had refused. The reprogramming and actual production would only take a short time, and the activity seemed to her a most fitting way to occupy her own mind while she was in labor. And so she spent several hours absorbed in her task, using the preview screen to check the scale and shape of the tiny garment before she produced a prototype, taking her time adjusting the proportions of the gown before turning out an even dozen in a burst of pride at her accomplishment. Then two dozen diapers, and she was done, everything folded neatly on top of the recycler. More than enough to last until she was up and about again. 

It was mid-morning, and she was sweating profusely and cramping regularly every five minutes when she finally turned to see the familiar sight of Spock's back as he sat at the computer. 

"Look," she said, turning in her chair, unfolding one of the gowns and holding it up. He turned to face her, and across the room she felt another lightening stab of fear, quickly controlled. He nodded, face nearly expressionless, and turned back to the computer. And she thought, _He isn't afraid of what's going to happen. He's afraid of how he might_ feel _about it_. 

Turning back to the recycler, she rested an elbow on it and wiped her streaming face with her other arm. Adrenaline surged through her. Contractions every five minutes. She was at the starting gate now; the race was about to be run. And for the first time since they were marooned, she felt as though she were in charge. _You help me, my friend, and I'll help you. Deal?_ He would never have agreed if he had known she perceived his fear, but that did not dampen her excitement. For the first time, she had something to contribute besides being a burden. 

The thought exhilarated her, and the knowledge that hormones were fueling that exhilaration did not diminish it. Smiling a little, she rose to her feet, only then to discover that the wooden chair on which she had been sitting and the floor beneath it were both wet. 

"I better go lie down," she announced matter-of-factly, "Water's broken. Have to keep the head off the cord." And without looking to see his reaction, she went off to follow her own advice. 

During the next half hour, the contractions intensified and became much more frequent. Sarah concentrated on breathing and not pushing, taking frequent readings with her medical tricorder, and reporting dilation to the fraction of a centimeter. As she had hoped, the detailed reports appeared to reassure Spock, who at first sat on the floor beside the cot and then silently fetched a wet cloth to wipe her streaming face. If he was frightened now she did not perceive it, and once again she felt in control, competent, even prideful. Only once did he show emotion--when a particularly strong contraction caused her to groan aloud. Rising, he looked down at her for a moment and then extended his hands, which she grasped strongly and gratefully. It was only a few moments later that she gasped, "Now!" He pulled her to her feet, and squatting over the soft, clean place they had prepared, she gave birth--now grasping his shoulders while he received the child into his hands--knowing that there was no one else in the universe that she would rather have had with her at that moment. 

"Is she all right?" she gasped. 

"Perfect." His voiced seemed to come from very far away. Heat and exhaustion and the smell of blood rose up to enfold her, and she collapsed backwards onto the clean towel they had spread on the cot. He went on with his work, doing everything she had told him he must do for her and the child. When he finished, she was lying on the cot in a fresh tunic, with a clean towel between her legs. At her side, lying on another clean towel with her umbilical cord neatly cut and tied, was a very red baby girl squalling at the top of her lungs. 

Spock was at the window, his back to the room. 

_It's all right_ , Sarah thought. _You did good, Spock. You did real good._ But she knew there was no point in saying it aloud. He was unreachable. 

The deepest loneliness she had ever known threatened to engulf her, but she fought it back as she took her child in her arms for the first time. 

"Hi, baby." Spock, ever the planner, had put her tunic on backwards so that the opening was down the front. "Hi, baby girl." Tears mingled with the sweat on her cheeks, she took the baby to her breast, crooning. As the infant began to suck strongly, Sarah wrapped the towel around her, never once thinking to check Spock's assertion that the child was perfect. 

It would sooner have occurred to her to check the sky to see if it was green. 

  


She slept, woke to nurse the baby, slept, woke, nursed, and slept again. Spock was always nearby, and once, late in the afternoon, he brought her a warm Thermocan of soup, one of the last. She drank it gratefully and nursed Jill again, peripherally aware that he averted his eyes when she partially bared her breast, but resigned herself to the inevitable. _Some things you just can't do anything about, Spock._ A sense of calm and well-being pervaded her consciousness. The job was done, and with Spock's help, she had done it well. 

When she woke fully, it was dark. Armstrong and Aldrin were both out of phase, and she opened her eyes to the stars shining through her window. Simultaneously she realized that the baby was no longer at her side and that Spock was standing at the window, off-side so that the panorama of the sky was only partially eclipsed by his shadowy figure. He was holding something, and Sarah's lips parted silently, her exclamation of surprise quickly stifled, as she realized that the bundle he was holding against his shoulder was Jill. 

Narrowing her eyes against the darkness in the room, she studied his face, which was visible to her in profile. It was far from expressionless, but the expression she saw there was at first unfathomable. Unaware of her scrutiny, he gazed up the stars with complete concentration. Yet his forehead was smooth, the expressive brows untroubled. Meditating? She had seen him in meditation many times, but now he gave no sign of being in a trance. _Making a promise. Something to do with Jill. And Jim?_ The words sprang to mind from nowhere, as was often the case when she grasped something empathetically, and she accepted them without wondering how she knew. And with that acceptance came another. 

_We three will never leave this world, and he knows it._

 _And so do I._

No tears accompanied the realization. As soon as she came to it, a burden of denial fell from her spirit, leaving it as spent and flat-bellied as her body under the sheet. Knowing that all the energy that she, and perhaps Spock, had expended on denial of their reality could now be spent in accepting it, she closed her eyes and drifted off once again. Behind her lids, stars shone softly around a tall, silent shadow with a very small bundle held protectively against his shoulder. 

  


Two weeks later, she and Spock flew over Tower City together. 

When Jill was three days old, he had left them alone for the first time and flown away in the hovercraft without explanation. Preoccupied and more than a little afflicted with post-partum and post-denial depression, she did not question him when he returned. But his stiff, controlled expression told her more clearly than words what he had gone to see. She wondered if this could be the first time he had gone to see it, and if he, like most humans, found it necessary to view the body before accepting the death. 

A few days later, she said, "I have to go and see Tower City too." 

He had offered to accompany her on a short walk along the beach while they both listened for Jill to announce that it was time for her late-evening feeding. Suspecting that rather than seeking her company he simply wanted to keep an eye on her, Sarah had nevertheless acquiesced with suitably muted pleasure; a self-appointed security detail was better than no company at all. Yet his politely protective manner irritated her because of the ambivalent feelings it aroused. Part of her wanted desperately to be watched over and taken care of, and another part wanted to tell him to get the hell away and quit hovering; she could take care of herself just fine, thank you very much. The two were a dangerous mix, and the conflict between them potentially volatile. She was keeping an eye on the mix while he kept an eye on her, and with some success. But when the thought of Tower City occurred to her, she spoke without caution for the first time since the baby's birth. As soon as the words were out, she realized that although they were deeply sincere, her ulterior motive had been to get an emotional response from him. Any response at all, as long as it was genuine. 

He continued to walk, hands still clasped behind his back. But his pace slowed, and she turned around to face him, feeling less guilty than awed. No control there. Simply a listening silence that she had never elicited from him before. His gaze met hers directly, in his eyes she saw nothing but understanding, empathy, and--could it be?--a hint of respect. In that moment, they were for the first time truly friends. 

"Indeed," he said, and then the moment flew. Control banished understanding, and he was himself again. (Himself? And who might that be?) "When you are stronger." He moved past her and ahead of her, turned, and raised one eyebrow. "Do you wish to continue walking, or are you fatigued?" 

"Oh, Spock." It was only a whisper, and she looked away to conceal her disappointment and hurt. _How am I going to survive this?_ she thought. _How am I going to survive_ him? 

But before the conversation could continue, another of Jill's staccato awakenings split the air with unhappy demands for sustenance. 

  


She knew that the scene would not be one of carnage, since the city had been incinerated. But the fused desolation skimmed by the shadow of their craft was worse than carnage. It was a mirror of hell, spitting infernal reflections back at the sun. She clung to the side of the craft, clutching her child with her other arm, wondering if she would vomit or faint, but aware that Spock, for once, was not hovering. He must have gone through it himself, alone, and he knew that she must go through it too in order to survive it. And yet, after what seemed like years but could only have been minutes, she heard him say tensely, "We must go now, Sarah," and realized that Jill was crying. 

It was the most piteous, utterly demoralizing wail that Sarah had ever heard. No neonate that she had come in contact with had ever emitted such a sound. But then, no neonate that she had come in contact with had ever sung a dirge for twenty thousand souls. 

"We have to get her out of here." Clenching her teeth to keep them from chattering, Sarah tried to nurse the baby as Spock turned the craft toward home. But Jill refused to take the breast and continued to wail until they reached the bungalow. Then she suckled briefly and fell into an exhausted sleep so deep that Sarah was loath to put her down. "What could have happened to her?" she asked, hugging the child to her, eyes raised beseechingly to Spock. "Could she possibly have sensed...their pain?" 

"Or yours." But before she could catch his eye, he had left the room. 

  


Aldrin hung high and Armstrong low as Sarah entered the living room late that evening, her travel jumpsuit over her arm--limp now, a dead thing that lived only in memory. Spock sat alone in the dark, the curled fingers of one hand resting against his mouth. But when she entered, he looked up at her and silently raised his eyebrows. 

"I'm going to bury it," she said. 

Without answering, he rose, went to his room, and returned with his Starfleet uniform--pants and underwear as black as the night, shirt the sickly gray-blue of a human corpse--folded with such loving precision that each perfect square was the same size. The sight of it was too much for Sarah, and the tears that had wanted to be shed all day poured down her cheeks. But she made no sound. 

"I will go with you," he said in the gentlest tone she had ever heard him use. 

They buried their former lives in a single shallow grave at the edge of the woods, the leaves casting flickering double-shadows in the overlapping light of the two moons. Then they sat for a long time, cross-legged on the ground, while Sarah wept silently, sustained only by the warm, strong fingers that encircled her arm.  


  


### Their Second Autumn

Like the birds of Earth, the birds of Tara flew south for the winter, fearing (Sarah suspected in one of her rare fanciful moods) that the rains would melt the color from their feathers, making it run off in the deluge and turning them the same dull brown as the winter landscape. The first autumn, when Jill was still an infant, her busy mother had barely noticed the birds, or much of anything else. But by the second one, she had developed an oppressive apprehension regarding the annual migration. In some irrational corner of her psyche, the bright splashes of color were her only companions--inviting her to enjoy the day in the morning, singing her into relaxation in the evening, and keeping her company during the long, light spring and summer days. Their migration felt like desertion, and their impending absence from her life was a heavy burden. The last of them were going now, and as she and Jill watched them from the beach one afternoon in early November, her eyes were stinging with unshed tears. 

Lately, she cried much too often. 

"Flying." Pointing skyward, she tried to distract the child from her virtually ceaseless crawling. Jill was never still when she could be moving, and had to be watched every moment. There were times when Sarah found it difficult to remember what it had been like to do anything but watch Jill crawl. Pink-skinned, surprisingly plump considering their situation, and perennially filthy, Jill found more than enough to occupy her days and much too much, in her mother's weary estimation, to occupy her mouth. Now she plopped on her round behind and gazed up at the sky. Blue-eyed still, her pale hair wispy around her ears, she formed the word with her mouth and then brought it out in triumph. 

"Frine!" 

Irritable and bored as she was, Sarah dropped to the sand and hugged her. At fifteen months, Jill showed no inclination to walk; since she could get around just fine without it, she appeared disinclined to try it. But she had been repeating single words for a month, and Sarah had noticed that even Spock was impressed. No doubt Jill had noticed it too. Like any healthy small child, she knew what buttons to push to get her strokes, and pushed them every chance she got. 

"They're flying south for the winter." Taking the child on her lap, Sarah tried to continue the conversation, what little there was of it. There was not much conversation to be had elsewhere. Jill repeated the word, but she was already wiggling. _Why can't she sit still when I hold her?_ Sarah wondered. It was clear that the child liked to be held, but whenever Sarah held her, she couldn't seem to keep still. 

"Frine," she repeated, examining her mother's fingers. And then she was off again--pat, pat, pat along the beach. The sand was damp and mushy from an early morning rain; this would be the fourth miniature tunic-and-trousers set she had soiled today. Sarah felt her irritation rising, and quelled it. What did it matter? If she didn't have Jill to feed and change and talk to, what else would there be to do on this godforsaken.... 

Rising, she ambled down the beach after the scuttling baby, her gaze wandering toward the small structure where Spock had been working all day. What else indeed? He had renovated and refinished everything he could get his hands on, and now he was renovating the kennel where the Bounders had kept their research animals, the remains of which the two of them had had to dispose of. The present tenants were also casualties of the holocaust, but in an even more tragic way. 

"We should put it down," Sarah had said in despair, cradling the first-found wingless bird in her hands. A healthy, bright-eyed young bird, with stumps where its wings should have been. 

"No," Spock had said. "Life is its right." Knowing his people's views on the subject, she had agreed. The bird was still there, still bright-eyed on the perch that Spock had made for it with the Bounders' primitive tools. But it had never sung a note.... 

One more creature whose life would never be the same. 

"Jill," she said abruptly, "let's go home. It's time for dinner." 

"Ho," Jill agreed. She couldn't say "dinner" yet, but she knew what it was. 

  


After the initial peace offering, Spock had not permitted Sarah to prepare his food. "That would be...inappropriate," he had insisted when she had questioned him about it, but he would not tell her why. Since he rarely ate anything that could be called a meal, the opportunity for her to prepare it did not often arise, and so the question was seldom open to debate even if Sarah had chosen to debate it. He was a Vulcan, and so she did not doubt that he was eating enough to sustain his life and maintain his health as well as possible in the circumstances. If he chose to do it in solitary, arguing would do her no good. 

While she and Jill ate their supper of nuts and fruit, Spock changed venue from the kennel to the house. The window frames needed replacing, he had told her a few weeks before. He would do it before winter. Although it was widely believed that Vulcans cannot lie, she did not believe him. He had even less to occupy his time than she had, and was obviously determined to fix everything fixable, whether it was broken or not. 

This evening he chose to work at the window closest to the table, which at first surprised Sarah. But difficult as it was to believe, she soon realized that he had done it to be near Jill. The baby "talked" all the time--in few words that were recognizable as such, but in a conversational tone and with an uncanny habit of looking at the person she was talking to from time to time, as though that person could understand every word. As she mashed, mushed, and annihilated an object that both Spock and Sarah now referred to as a banana, she kept up a constant prattle to Spock, as though she were telling him a long story. Oddly enough, he too would look up from time to time, meet Jill's gaze, and occasionally nod as though to encourage the child to continue. 

"Are you in telepathic contact with her?" Sarah had asked when she observed the phenomenon. 

"No," he had answered, and volunteered nothing more. So much for _that_ conversation. But since his silent responses appeared to encourage Jill as much as her mother's verbal responses did, Sarah was grateful that he cared to give them. What he actually felt for the child, if anything, she had no idea, since he seldom touched her. 

After she had removed the third of the banana that had ended up on Jill's hands and face, the two of them went for another "walk." This time, Jill chose to do her crawling in the vicinity of Spock's labors. Once, when he stepped back while removing the old window frame, the baby was directly behind him. 

"Jill," he said quietly, "please move away. I do not wish to step on you." To Sarah's surprise, Jill complied. 

"You're so patient with her," she said wistfully. "I would have snapped at her, but you never raise your voice." 

"That would serve no purpose." Setting the old frame against the wall, he grasped the new one and raised it until it was opposite the opening. 

"Aren't you going to tell me what a rotten mother I am?" she goaded him, desperate to keep the conversation going. Like a kid with a crush, she thought in disgust, blushing a little as she remembered a graphic, erotic dream she had had about him only the night before. And sometimes even in the daytime-- 

"That would be inaccurate," he said expressionlessly, and after an instant of embarassed confusion she realized that he was simply answering her question. Holding the frame opposite the window opening, he aligned them in the air. "And if it were not, what purpose would there be in my criticizing you?" 

"To let off steam. To pass the time. To feel superior. Whatever excuses people find to bicker with each other." Or sexual tension, she thought. Damn him. _Damn_ him. 

He set the frame down and reached for sand paper. "I will not play war games with you." 

"Did you ever 'play war games' with _anyone_?" 

After a moment, he said, "Yes." 

Surprised, she blurted, "Why?" 

A faint sigh. "He enjoyed it. I accommodated." 

"But _you_ didn't enjoy it, of course." 

A short silence. Then, wistfully: "Perhaps I did." But before she could recover from the mild shock this admission elicited, he continued, "And perhaps you may wish to tell me what you are angry about. This time." 

"Nothing you can help me with, Mister Spock." He could not possibly know, she thought. Vulcans didn't get horny between Times. Or so it was said; T'Loreth had not discussed that subject with her. Could he possibly know that she watched him move gracefully about his work and fantasized him inside her, thrusting? "You can't solve every problem, you know. You'll just have to learn to live with your limitations." 

"As will you." Apparently unaware of her open-mouthed stare, he went on sanding down the window frame, his back to her still. "As you once pointed out, it is just your luck to be marooned on this planet with a prim and proper Vulcan." 

"Don't you _wish_." 

It was a blind shot, born of surprise and confusion. She knew without question that he would not read her mind even if he could. How, then, had he guessed? 

Then she realized that he had gone completely still for an instant after she spoke. 

It was only an instant, and then he went on with his work. "I cannot be of service to you." For once, there was no superiority in his tone. It was a simple statement of fact. 

The hell with it. What's to lose? Nowhere to go from here but up. "Do you really think," she asked quietly, "that 'service' is all I want from you?" 

"Whatever you want, I cannot give it to you. The sooner you accept that, the easier it will be for both of us." 

"Not can't. Won't." 

"You do not understand." 

"You're right. I don't. Are you telling me that you can't perform as a human male?" 

He turned then, eyes slitted, fury barely controlled. "In context, how does a service differ from a performance?" 

"Oh, you _really_ know how to get to me, don't you." 

Her outburst triggered the control mechanism. She could almost see it snap into place. "I regret that I spoke inappropriately." 

" _Screw_ inappropriate!" 

"In context, your vocabulary is particularly--" 

"Shut _up_!" Even in her agitation, she had been keeping Jill in her peripheral vision. Satisfied that the child was, for once, not in motion but sitting quietly in the sand, she dropped to the ground from the edge of the porch where she had been sitting, pulled her knees up to her chin, buried her face, and sobbed inconsolably, rocking back and forth in her rage and anguish. _I want to go home. Oh, please--I want to go home...._ After a moment, Spock glanced at Jill and then returned to his work. 

A few feet away, the baby began to rock in empathy, her feet stuck straight out before her in the sand, her face pale and drawn, her blue eyes upturned to watch another flock of migrating birds swerve against the darkening sky as though of one mind. "Fline ho," she whispered, sing-song. "Fline ho. Fline ho...." 

  


Sarah slept restlessly that night. Just before dawn, deeply aware of the stillness where birdsong had been only a few days before, she lay listening as Spock moved with virtual silence from his room to the kitchen table. Did he ever sleep all night long, she wondered as she pulled on her clothes. Joining him at the table, where he sat with his hands folded before a cup of tea made from native aromatic leaves, she folded her hands in kind. 

"Do you think we can ever be friends?" The question started out calmly enough, but by the time she finished it, her voice was trembling. "I might not be able to survive this if we can't be friends. I can do without sex if I have to, but I can't do without _people_." 

After a moment, he said, "You have your child." It was not a reprimand. He sounded puzzled. 

"Yes. Well...." _Sometimes I think I'll go crazy...._ But you could only say something like that to a friend. "I mean grown-up people. Spock, why won't you let me fix food for you? You do just about everything around here because Jill takes so much of my time. That's about the only thing I can do for _you_ , and you won't let me do it. I feel--like I'm no use to you. Just a burden." Silence. "All right. Forget why. But a friend--needs to be able to do things for a friend. Please?" 

"I cannot permit that...." _Not finished. Don't interrupt. Let him finish._ "...Yet," he finished, and then added with an obvious effort: "I shall consider it." 

"Thank you." In the pale, pre-dawn light, she saw this eyebrows rise. "For listening. For not saying no." 

Her sense of well-being, of having accomplished a first step, lasted precisely six point five hours. While Jill was supposedly taking her nap, Sarah brought up on the computer screen the Bounders' specimen catalog, to which she and Spock had been intermittently adding records. It wasn't the work she wanted to be doing, but it was close enough. Losing track of the time, she realized that Jill should have been awake by now, went searching for her, and discovered her in the greenhouse with an incredible amount of good black dirt in her hair, on her clothes, on her chin, and smeared all over the floor. 

"Bad girl!" was Sarah's first nearly instinctive reaction. _I was doing something fun for a change, and you had to go and--_

Jill howled, hurt to the core. 

"Don't _do_ that to her." Spock remained in the doorway, but his voice, although not particularly loud, filled the room. Jill, sensing an ally, crawled to him and hid her face against his leg, her first outraged howl moderating to an I-really-need-sympathy snuffle. To Sarah's incredulous surprise, Spock picked the child up and held her in the crook of his arm. Jill, equally surprised, forgot to snuffle and gazed up at his face, her thumb in her mouth. "A child this age is not _bad_ unless you make her believe she is," Spock continued in a more moderate tone. Then confusion set in. He even forgot to control it. "Sarah, I regret that I interfered. It is not my place--" 

"No. No." Still half stunned, trying to analyze his reaction, Sarah moved over to hold out her arms, and Jill came to her without hesitation. "It's all right. It's fine. Really." What in the world had made him react that way? 

That evening, as they cleaned up the greenhouse together, she asked him. 

"Who was it who made you feel 'bad'? Your father or your mother?" 

It was a test, and she knew he knew it. If he shut her out now, they would have to start all over again. Scrubbing dirt off the floor, she waited. 

"Neither," he said finally. "It was...the Father. Do you...perhaps you are unaware--" 

"You mean it was the Vulcan father image, not the m-- not the person." 

"Indeed." The word itself was a sigh. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" 

"No." 

"Okay, then I want to talk." Still scrubbing, she forged on. Either he was there, or he wasn't. "She's my baby, and she's so beautiful I could eat her up. But sometimes I think I will go _crazy_ if I don't get some time away from her." 

"Away?" he repeated blankly. 

"Away. But there is no 'away,' right? If I could even take _her_ away, it would help. Goddamn it, Spock, if she would only get up and _walk_. Then she and I could _go_ somewhere and _do_ things." 

"What things?" 

" _I_ don't know! Just things." 

"That is not--" But he stopped himself. 

"Right. It's not. But it's true just the same." 

"Do you regret choosing to have her?" 

"No. Everything is always so black-and-white to you." 

"How did you anticipate dealing with this problem if--on Vulcan?" 

"I expected to be part of an Extended. Everybody takes care of everybody's kids. I didn't expect to be so isolated, so _trapped_." 

"We are both trapped," he said flatly. 

"Thanks a heap." But that was not the way she wanted the conversation to go. " _You_ can get away. You can fly in the 'craft. I can't even take her for a walk." 

"What would you expect of your child's father if he were here?" 

_You are here. He is not_. But she held back the sarcastic echo of his own words long ago. Some other time. He wasn't nearly ready for that yet. Sitting back on her heels, she wiped her forehead with her wrist. "Give a damn, Spock. Just give a damn." 

By the next morning, he had coaxed the recycler into making her a back pack just big enough to hold a delighted little girl who, nevertheless, could not sit still when she was that close to her mother. 

  


High on peace and good will, Sarah determined to change. With Jill on her back, she hunted for smooth, colorful stones and bright-hued leaves to decorate their table. The tablecloth that she had found in a closet but never used was draped over the table, and while Jill was asleep in the afternoon, Sarah created a centerpiece which came crashing to the floor when Jill tried to pull herself up on the cloth. 

"Damn you! Can't I have _anything_ I want?" Then there was a mark on Jill's cheek, slowly reddening, and Sarah and her child stared at each other, both trembling, both appalled, neither able to make a sound. 

"Perhaps," came Spock's voice as though from a great distance, "I would do well not to leave her alone with you." 

"Why do I always have to _work around her_?" 

Dropping to the floor beside them, Spock took her by the shoulders and shook her once, quit hard. "What alternative do you have?" he demanded, and lowered his hands. At the apex of the triangle, Jill began to rock back and forth, back and forth, still making no sound. When Sarah took her in her arms, the child burrowed against her as though she wanted to hide from the world. 

"Why didn't you pick her up this time?" Sarah asked, numb. 

"That would have been...unwise." He rose, turned, and left the room. Only the memory of his blazing eyes remained as Sarah continued to hold her now weeping child, knowing that if Jill had gone to Spock, it would have been a long time before she would have sought comfort in her mother's arms again. 

And if he had not known that, somehow, what would have become of them? 

For a day, Jill and her mother concentrated on making peace with one another. Sarah was patient and kind, and Jill consented to being walked around the room, given that this clumsy, inefficient activity appeared to please her mother inordinately. At bath time, when Sarah's back was turned, she dunked a rag doll that Sarah had made for her out of diapers into the bath water, and announced proudly, "Baff!" When Sarah, exhausted beyond impatience, refused to let her take the sodden wretch to bed with her, she howled herself to sleep. 

Spock sat at the computer, apparently oblivious. 

Holding the oozing doll, Sarah wandered out onto the beach alone, thinking logical thoughts one after the other. She could get rid of the doll and make another. That was easy enough. Jill would never know the difference. Would she? Still wandering aimlessly, she realized that she had come to the edge of the forest, and that there were two full moons tonight, one high and one low. 

She could bury the doll. Just as she and Spock had buried their clothing on such a night as this. 

Sitting down, she held the wet cloth in her hands, and it seemed that somehow it was her child she was wanting to bury. Utterly exhausted, she bowed her head, cradling the doll as she had cradled the deformed bird. 

"I will never hit a child again," she whispered over and over to the two silent moons and the flickering double shadows. "I will never hit a child again." Finally, rising, she laid the doll in the crotch of a tree, slowly retraced her steps to the house, and sat down at the table. 

Spock rose and went into the kitchen. Sarah put her head down on her wrists. When he returned, she heard him set something on the table near her elbow. Without speaking, he returned to the computer. 

Raising her head, she saw that he had made her a cup of tea. 

_A friend needs to be able to do things for a friend_. 

A wave of sexual longing passed through her, so strong that it frightened her. _No, no, NO!_ she thought, staring at the steaming cup. _Don't let it get mixed up with anything else. What will I do if sex gets mixed up with something else?_ Staring now at the back of his sleek head, she contemplated the life she would have if she were to fall in love with this man. No--with this Vulcan. Contemplated it long and thoroughly as she sipped her tea, while he sat with his back to her, typing at the keyboard. 

She had control of little about her life. But that was something that was never, never going to happen to her. 

"I accept your gift," she said aloud, noting absently that there was no emotion in her voice except gratitude. "Will you accept mine?" He turned, but his face was in shadow. "When the harvest is in, I think we should all have a real meal. Together. A harvest feast. I think we should eat like pigs, with the tablecloth on, and let Jill smear it up if she wants to. And I think you should let me fix the meal. Can you deal with that?" 

The shadow seemed to smile faintly. "Ritual has great importance in the lives of all sapient beings." 

"Good. And goodnight." Rising, she took herself to bed, deeply convinced that she could change her life, and would. 

Nothing like _that_ was ever going to happen to _her_. 

  


The next time Sarah caught Jill in the greenhouse, she sat down next to her on the floor. It was very evident what Jill expected her to do; would she ever forget being hit? Sarah drew her onto her lap, and when Jill began to rock, Sarah rocked too. 

"No, little one. I'm never going to hit you again." 

"Muvver hurt," murmured Jill, her movements becoming more agitated. 

"No. I won't ever do it again. I promise." 

"No!" Jill echoed. Twisting around, filthy, urgently wanting to be understood, she laid her grimy hand on Sarah's chest, " _Muvver_ hurt!" She touched Sarah's cheek, then withdrew her hand, leaving a smear of black dirt. "Muvver...bad?" she asked hesitantly, fingering the cheek again. 

"No." Sarah sighed. "Mother got dirty, just like Jill. The earth is good. Look." Picking up a handful, she smoothed it soothingly over the child's arms, and then her own. "The earth is good. See?" 

"Erf good," Jill repeated, sing-song. She leaned back, relaxed, against her mother. "Erf _good_." She had stopped rocking, and was not even wiggling. 

When they returned to the living room, another cup of tea was waiting. 

  


After their harvest feast, Spock asked, "Would you like me to clean this up?" He indicated the table, complete with cloth thoroughly smeared with peas and carrots. 

"Know what I'd really like?" she asked, smiling. Picking Jill up, she deposited her in Spock's ambivalent arms. "I'd like you to take this lovely little girl for a long walk. I don't want to see either of you for an hour. Can you deal with _that_?" 

"If you wish." But he quickly set Jill on her feet. 

"Kake a walk," Jill echoed approvingly, and they were off, Spock with his arms folded, Jill already moving as fast on her feet as she ever had on her knees. 

They had had their meal in the late afternoon, directly after Jill's nap, so that she would not be too tired to enjoy it with them. By the time Sarah had cleared the debris, the sun had almost set, and she stood on the porch, savoring the coolness of the air after the long, hot summer, and wondering idly where Spock and Jill might have gone. Then she heard voices from the side of the house. Moving to the corner, she paused, watching and listening. 

"Your father is the captain of a starship," Spock was saying. He sat cross-legged on the ground, facing the delighted baby, who had never had this much undivided attention from him before. His manner was intent, but not somber. He was, Sarah realized with a small shock, thoroughly enjoying himself. "Say 'captain.'" Jill's lips moved, but the challenge was too much for her. Spock made several more attempts, to no avail. Then: "Say 'Yes, sir.'" Articulating precisely: "'Yes-sir.'" 

"Esser!" The baby threw up her arms, utterly delighted with herself. And Spock laughed. Sarah could barely hear him. There was a brief, unfamiliar rumbling, and then silence. But if he felt regret, he did not show it. Sitting there in the dusk with her child, he smiled a smile that Sarah had never seen before. 

Making no sound, she moved back to the porch and sat on the edge of it, hugging herself. It was chilly now, with a light breeze coming over the lake. But she was on fire. 

"What am I going to do?" she whispered. Lying there night after night alone, feeling like this? "Can't love him. Can't get it all mixed up. Can't love _him_. What am I going to do...." 

In the kennel beyond Spock and Jill, a wingless bird began to sing

=====

When he was a little boy on Vulcan, his mother had always loved the rain. It did not seem logical to him, and he had told her so. But she had smiled and said, "Well, Spock, you're right. It's not logical." That was not a satisfactory answer; Vulcans argue only for reasons, and if one's mother would not give one a reason to argue, it followed that one could not argue. One could, however, ask her why, provided that one did not expect an answer one could understand. 

"It makes me feel happy," she had answered. "It makes me feel at home." 

The infrequent torrential rains on his home planet did not make him feel at home. They made him feel sticky, as though he wanted to shake the unfamiliar humidity off his hands and feet and lick himself to wash off the wet, which was not logical either. But his mother, whose distant ancestors were not feline, insisted that rain made her feel happy. "It's so soothing," she would say, standing at the window to watch the grayness that obscured the red sun and set everything awash. "Just listen...." 

He stood at the window now, secure in the knowledge that the frames he had replaced one point two five years ago would not leak as the original frames had done, and watched Sarah and Jill "going for a splash" in the brightly colored ponchos that Sarah had made for them. ("It's yellow!" she had exclaimed in delight that first summer when they found the lightweight tarpaulin that the Earthbounders had left rolled up in the kennel, its intended use a mystery at the time. "We can cut it up for mackinaws." Why she would want to do that had been difficult for him to understand until this winter, when Jill was old enough to go for a splash. But he understood now.) Watching them from the window, he listened to the soft, monotonous drumming of the rain on the roof of the bungalow, found it pleasant to be inside where it was dry, and also to be watching the two outside. Wet hair tangled on their shoulders, they ran barefoot and laughing, hand in hand, two bright spots of sunshine in silver-gray. If the rain had reminded Amanda of home in those long-gone days of his childhood, Sarah and Jill reminded him of home now--here in the only home any of them would probably ever have. 

He suppressed a sigh, controlled his recurring melancholy, and turned from the window to lay a fire for their return. Feline-descended they were not, but it had been a long winter, and he knew from experience how much they would both enjoy the fire when they came in from their splash. 

Maintaining a supply of dry wood was difficult, but difficult tasks passed the time, and so he sought them out and (if truth were told) spent more time than was justified in their accomplishment. Belatedly, he suspected that the tarp had been used to cover the woodpile in winter; what remained of it was still used for that purpose, and he had also found a number of nooks and crannies in each of the buildings where wood could be piled, in neat stacks to conserve space, each time there were enough sunny days in tandem to dry it out. The cutting and stacking were time-consuming enough to give him an additional reason to look forward to the appearance of the sun. And Sarah's restlessness and Jill's incessant energy ensured that there would be enough excursions into the winter rain to justify what Sarah called "squirreling away" the wood for the fireplace. However, the necessity of arranging the stacks in layers, each one fitted together like a puzzle, was debatable. Occasionally he would wonder if this behavior were obsessive--until he considered the minimal alternatives available during the rainy season. Put succinctly, much of the time he had nothing else to do. 

And so he took his time laying the fire, arranging the kindling and larger pieces to please his sense of order, only marginally aware of how much he was anticipating Sarah's pleasure at seeing the fire when she came in. When he realized the extent of his anticipation of that event, he took pains to subdue it. It was not logical to take inordinate pleasure in such inconsequential events, especially in light of the fact that this one took place nearly every day. 

Curious phenomenon, that. Never having lived in close proximity to another being, he had been unaware of the dynamics of the resultant personal interaction. Down the long tunnel of memory, he heard her saying, "Give a damn, Spock. Just give a damn." Could this, perhaps, be what she meant--this quiet delight that rose in him when she came through the door and saw the fire already burning? Such a small thing to mean so much to a human. 

_Giving her pleasure pleases me_ said a heavily muffled voice deep inside him. But he chose to disregard it as irrelevant. 

As he went on meticulously laying the fire, he remembered how much she had changed in the three years since they had come to Tara. Grown up, he supposed one could call it, although that would be over-simplification in the extreme. She was complex enough to defy categorization, and to attempt to do so was to invite catastrophe. Even now, it baffled him that one person's inconsistencies could exasperate and even infuriate him to the edge of control, only to fling him to the opposite extreme (respect? affection?) within hours or even within moments. Of late, however, the extremes were less perceptible as such, and for that he was grateful. There had been danger to Jill in her mother's emotional excesses, and danger to the Image in Sarah's once-evident preoccupation with physical gratification. He knew that he would not have given in to her, would never have betrayed the Image. Even now, with the Time approaching in one point three years, he felt secure in the fact that the problem was solved before it became a problem. Sarah was now well able to survive and protect Jill alone; he would simply take the 'craft far enough away to prevent him from returning on foot before he died, land it, and irreparably damage the mechanism while he was still sane enough to do it. The logical simplicity of the plan pleased him; for the first time in months he thought of the Father, and how much this solution would have pleased him as well. 

Satisfied, he lit the fire, sat back on his heels, and stared into the flames as Sarah often did. No Vulcan would enjoy this atavistic preoccupation. And yet he indulged for a moment, perhaps because there was no one there to see him do it. And his thoughts wandered on. 

In any case, the proximate problem of Sarah's unfulfilled appetites now appeared to have been solved as well--by her rather than by him, and without his being forced into an arbitrary position of outright rejection. If only he could be as sure that she would-- 

Despair, sudden and overwhelming, engulfed him, and he bowed his head against the onslaught. 

_I know he's coming back for me. Why doesn't he_ do _it?_

Control. Gain control. Jim could not be dead. He would know it if Jim were dead. 

_But why doesn't he come back?_

He forced the fear and the confusion and, yes, the anger under control. Anger against what? Fate? What would be, would be. Control. Slowly he raised his head and took a deep breath as the soothing flames rose higher. Jim would come back. It might not be soon enough for him. But surely--surely it would be soon enough for Jill. 

It was only when he thought of Jill never knowing her father that his logically simple plan for his own demise faltered and threatened to collapse. Who, then, would tell her again and again that her father was the captain of a starship? He knew that she did not understand the words, but he knew also that she somehow understood how important those words were. For how long? Who would keep the memory alive for her? It was not logical to expect Sarah to do that. She had known Jim for only a few days, had been involved in a transient relationship that he still could not begin to understand. What then would become of the promise he himself had made on the night of Jill's birth--to see to it that she never forgot the father she had never met? Only a halfling would have made such an illogical vow. The Father.... But he was not the Father. He was not anyone's father, least of all Jill's.... 

For a moment he was filled with a bittersweet longing that he had not permitted himself to feel since he received Sarah's child into his hands and lost for a moment the precious emotional distance that Sarah had tried so hard to help him preserve. The muffled voice inside him, which he could never quite silence, had whispered, _I wish it were mine._

Not this baby. 

My baby. 

And...hers? 

At that moment, Sarah and Jill burst into the room, laughing and scattering raindrops. Seeing the fire, Sarah paused and drew in her breath--hair molded to her head, face streaked with rain, eyes alight with pleasure. And he thought, _You are beautiful_ , and cut down the thought and buried it. 

So much danger here.... 

Even as he controlled, he saw Sarah mute her pleasure rather than embarrass him. "That's wonderful," she said quietly. "Look, Jill. Spock made us a fire." 

"He a'ways does," Jill informed her happily, and the two of them discarded their dripping yellow mackinaws in a pile on the floor. Spock concentrated on wondering why Sarah found it necessary to do that, thereby successfully banishing the most disquieting thoughts he had had in months. 

That evening, he worked again on the cradle he was making for Jill's doll. She had long since given up "bathing" everything Sarah made for her that remotely resembled a baby, and was now inordinately fond of a diaper-doll that Sarah has stuffed with grass and drawn a face for. The doll's name was Dolly. To Jill, there were only three given names on the world, and Sarah's suggestions of names had no meaning for her. Both Sarah and Spock were disturbed by this; Jill's unfamiliarity with basic human conventions continually reminded them that without memories of another life, she was much more isolated than they were. Attempting to counteract this, Sarah had formed the habit of telling what she called "family stories" while they sat by the fire in the evenings. This evening, the story involved Sarah and her cousin Chris, and a certain escapade that appeared to amuse and sadden her at the same time. Memories should not sadden us, Spock thought. Memories should kept in a safe place to be enjoyed and savored. In fantasy, he saw himself playing chess with Jim of an evening, with McCoy lounging nearby, glass in hand. He could not savor that memory, but only yearn for it. So much for Vulcan advice to humans. Had it not always been so? And why had he not learned that elementary fact until it was too late? 

As usual, Jill was full of questions. "What's Christmas?" "What's a stocking?" "What's cookie dough?" Sarah explained, brushing her hair in the firelight. Spock worked on the cradle, firmly refusing to notice how the light played on her hair as she brushed. "What's a cuzzin?" Jill asked finally. 

"A cousin is...someone whose mother is your father's sister, or whose father is your mother's brother, or--" 

"What's a sister?" 

"A little girl," Sarah explained, obviously aware that she was far out of her depth in what should have been very shallow water, "who has the same mother and--" 

"Can I have one?" Jill asked eagerly. 

Sarah's mouth opened, but no sound came. 

"Look, Jill." Rising without haste, Spock took the small, unfinished cradle in his hands and sat on the floor next to the child. He showed her how Dolly would fit into the cradle, and explained how he would sand it down until it was so smooth that Dolly would not snag on it as she did now. Jill looked at the cradle and then at his hands, appearing to be equally fascinated with both. Sarah, he had noticed, often watched his hands too, and he wondered why both of them appeared to enjoy doing that. A hand, as T'Pau would say, is a hand. In any case, Jill was successfully diverted from her former conversational path, and when he looked up at Sarah, she mouthed a silent _Thank you_. 

After the child was in bed, they sat before the fire in companionable silence for a long time--Sarah on the floor, arms around her knees, staring into the flames, and Spock sanding the cradle, which was already taking on a pleasing sheen. 

"How can we explain things to her," Sarah asked finally, "when she has no referents?" There was frustration in her voice, and something like despair. 

"We shall continue to tell her 'family stories.'" 

"We?" 

Spock raised an eyebrow. "I was not left on a doorstep." But in his mind, he saw Jim. And McCoy. And all the others.... 

Sarah smiled briefly. "No. But I was. Almost." 

"You?" 

She told him then, for the first time. About the parents who were killed when she was a child. About the aunt and uncle on her mother's side who took her in and raised her among their children as one of their own. "Except I wasn't," she said wistfully. "Not really." And about her paternal grandfather, who was "the only person who was really mine." Sitting before the fire, staring into it as Spock had done earlier, she became for him, for the first time, a person with a life--a life that had existed before Tara, before James Kirk. It was damp outside the fire's circle, and she had thrown a blanket around her shoulders in lieu of a shawl. The blanket slipped off one shoulder, but she want on talking, unaware. He listened, fascinated, drinking in the newness of her. "He told me about my father, his son. About my mother too, but he didn't know her very well. And about my grandmother." And she told him then about her alien grandmother who had stowed away on a spaceship because her planet was not a safe place to be. "She used to say that her parents chose their kinsmen unwisely." It was a quotation. He could surmise that from the way she said it. And everything fell into place at last. 

Zarabeth. 

At least she had had a child of her own. Before. And that child had been Sarah's grandmother. 

It had been several years since he had seen in retrospect Sarah's face as she bent over the Tiffany lamp, marveling at its beauty--the same face he had seen when Zarabeth bent over the fire in her icebound cave. But now he knew that it was not the same face at all. Astonished, he realized that it had been a very long time indeed since he had seen Zarabeth when he looked at Sarah. 

"What are you think--" she began, and stopped. "I'm sorry. That's not something you ask a Vulcan." 

"Why did you wish to ask it?" Something inside said _Danger_. But he ignored it. This was a friend. They could not survive together, even for another one point three years, unless they were friends. 

"You looked so...I don't know. Puzzled. Relieved." She smiled, and her hair shone gold in the firelight. "Spock, you really have no idea how transparent you are." 

Stop. 

He laid the cradle aside and rose, breaking the intimacy of the moment with what seemed to him to be remarkable tact and delicacy. "You were fortunate to have your grandfather nearby during that time." Leaning over, he pulled the blanket up around her shoulder again. A gesture of friendship, so that she would not feel rejected. "The rain has stopped. I shall check on the animals in the kennel." She nodded--calm, undisturbed, and he went out into the night gratified that they two were better friends than they had been before. 

  


Alone before the fire, Sarah hid her face against her drawn-up knees. Such a beautiful evening, and now it was all falling apart--because she wanted to make love with him so badly that she could hardly stand it. 

"Be satisfied with what you have," she whispered, clenching her hands to fists. "It doesn't get any better than this." Tears slipped down her cheeks, and she rubbed them away with the heels of her hands, still whispering. "I can do this. I can _do_ this." 

By the time he returned, she was dry-eyed and apparently calm. But although she had been feeling sleepily content while they talked, she remained wide awake, staring into the fire, for a long time after he went to his room.  


=====  
  
"April is the cruelest month," Sarah informed Jill one drizzly morning while they were taking their splash in the rain instead of going for the swim they had both looked forward to. Now that the child was almost four, her mother had gradually fallen into the habit of saying what was on her mind, trusting Jill to question her if she didn't understand. Jill appeared to enjoy listening to her talk as much as Sarah enjoyed talking, and her questions frequently led to interesting discussions. 

Jill had been hopping and jumping, splattering as much wet sand on both of them as she could. Now she took another hop, landed on both feet with a sodden thud, squinted up at her mother and asked, "What's cruel?" Then she hopped again, not about to be distracted from serious pursuits while her mother thought about answers. 

Sarah and Spock had discussed more than once the necessity of answering Jill's incessant questions carefully and deliberately. It was clear to both of them that the child was unusually intelligent, but had absolutely no context in which to place much of what they said to her and most of what they said to one another. Family relationships still eluded her, and abstractions with which she had no experience were particularly challenging to both adults, for they knew only too well that what they told her would probably be the only information she ever got. 

Now, as delighted that Jill was able to extract a root word from an unknown superlative (How could a child learn to do that when she had only heard two people talk in her entire life?) as she was with the obvious fact that Jill had no idea what "cruel" meant, Sarah pondered as she walked. Finally she said, "It means hurting someone and not caring that you hurt them." 

"How can April be cruel? It's not a person. It's just a month." Splat. Jill landed in a sizable puddle and wiggled her bare toes in the mushy sand at the bottom. Little hedonist, Sarah thought affectionately. Nature or nurture? Not hard to figure that one out. But that line of thought was unproductive, and she had taught herself not to pursue it. 

"Oh--it's just something you do when you're mad at a...a thing. You make a person out of it in your mind so you can be mad at it. Justify being mad at it, I mean." 

"What's 'justify'?" 

"Have a reason to." 

Grinning now: "If we make April sit in the corner, will it quit raining and so we can go swimming?" 

Laughing, Sarah put her arm around the child and hugged her as they walked. "Oh, Jilly, what would I do without you?" 

"You wouldn't laugh much," said Jill. "Why doesn't Spock laugh much?" 

Sarah sighed. "He was taught not to." 

"Why?" 

Context, Sarah thought. What possible context...? "His people...his father...believed it was better not to." 

"Did my father believe it was better not to?" 

"No, little one. He didn't." 

"What's a father?" 

They walked on in silence, Jill no longer hopping in the sand. She had often seen animals mating, and was fully knowledgeable about the results. But Spock and Sarah had agreed not to use the word "father" with her in that context. "The fathers never come around," Sarah had insisted when Spock demurred on logical grounds. "Is that what you want her to think a father is?" They had then had a logical discussion about alternative verbalizations of the concept, and had finally agreed to the use of the words "male," "female," and "impregnate," only to have Jill announce at breakfast several days later that a male chedo was impregnating a female on the window sill. 

"If he could," Sarah said finally, "your father would take care of you the way Spock and I do." 

"Why can't he?" 

"Because no one knows we're here, Jill. You remember. Spock told you." 

"Why doesn't anybody know we're here?" But Jill was hopping and splashing again. The question had been answered before, several times, and she obviously did not expect to understand the answer any better than she had the last time. 

"Because we have no way of telling them," Sarah said wistfully. 

"Do you wish we did?" 

_I wouldn't_ , Sarah thought, realizing it for the first time. _I wouldn't care if they ever found us if he'd only--_ "Yes." 

"Then I wish they would too," Jill said comfortingly, and took her hand. 

The rain stopped and they swam blissfully in the buff, Sarah trying not to wonder if Spock might be watching her from the forest where he had gone to cut wood to be dried in the sun for next winter. If he ever watched, she would be the last one to know about it. 

"Why do you swim so hard?" Jill asked her as they lay on the beach together in the sun. Jill swam well, but Sarah invariably swam around her in a large circle, keeping her in sight without keeping her company. 

"I need the exercise." 

"Why?" 

"So I can sleep at night." 

"You cry sometimes when you're asleep." 

"Oh, Jill." They were both lying prone, and Sarah raised herself on her elbows to she could stroke the child's hair back from her face. "Wake me up when I do that, okay?" 

"Won't you mind?" Jill asked, obviously relieved. 

"No. I won't mind at all." 

"What are those?" 

"Breasts." 

"What are they for?" 

"To feed babies with. Just like the chedo feeds her babies." 

"Can we get a baby too?" 

"Maybe when the Time comes," Sarah answered without thinking, and then drew in her breath. 

"What's wrong?" 

"I capitalized Time in my mind," Sarah answered, awed at the strength of her own feelings. 

A chosen child. Spock's child. And hers. 

"You _what_?" 

"Never mind. I was just thinking...." 

"Who will be the baby's mother?" 

"I will," Sarah said softly, and then tensed, expecting the obvious. 

"Who will be the baby's Spock?" 

Smiling now, Sarah rested her chin on her hands. "Spock will." 

"Oh, _good_!" Jill wriggled with delight. "Can I tell him right away?" 

"No." It was lucky, Sarah thought, that Jill was used to waiting while adults thought over what they were going to say to her. "You can't tell him that we talked about this. I have to tell him. Promise?" 

"Why?" Irate. Deprived. 

"Because I say so." The last resort, to which she seldom resorted. Jill knew better than to argue with _Because I say so_. "Promise?" 

"Do you have to justify him about it?" Jill asked. 

After a moment, Sarah said, "You can be downright scary." 

"Me?" 

"You haven't promised." Among the three of them, a promise was something that was never broken. 

Jill sighed. "I promise. When can we get the baby?" 

Jim had known about the Kalifee, Sarah calculated. They were on the _Enterprise_ together--what? Two or three years before Tara? Soon, then. Very soon. "Not soon," she said, knowing that to Jill, "soon" meant tomorrow if not this afternoon. "Babies are...much bigger than chedos. It takes a while to get one ready." 

"Big enough to play with?" Jill asked longingly. 

"Yes." 

"If you have to justify him about it, tell him I really, really want one. Do you really want one?" 

"Yes," said Sarah. "I really do." 

After a while, they dressed and wandered back up the beach together, holding hands, Sarah still bemused and preoccupied. As they neared the bungalow, Jill stopped and pointed. "There's the creature again." 

Looking in the direction Jill was pointing, Sarah spied the giant ant at the edge of the forest across the lake and forced herself out of her reverie. No closer than the last time, but this time it had only been two or three weeks since she had come to watch them. 

That evening, as she and Spock returned from their nightly walk on the beach, she said, "Why are you so concerned about her? She never comes anywhere near us." 

"You must not be lulled into a false sense of security, Sarah." How little he patronized her any more, she noticed with relief. He actually talked to her as though they were equals. As though they were friends. "Justifying" him would not be easy. But when the Time came.... "We know very little about the creature except that she can cure and that she can kill. If I should not be here, you may have to protect Jill yourself." 

_Yes_ , she thought. _I thought that's what you had in mind. What are you planning, my dear? Nothing messy. Nothing emotional. Go off where we can't find you and leave us a note? We'll see about that._ Sitting on the edge of the porch, she watched him looking off into the forest, hands behind his back. "You could sit down, you know." 

He turned to look at her, hands still behind his back. Then he moved to sit beside her, elbows on his knees, hands clasped between them. Good, she thought. That's a start. "Do you still think I'm going to make a move on you?" 

She had expected him to withdraw, at least emotionally. Instead, he turned his head to look at her and said, "No." 

"I'm glad you've come to trust me." 

"One trusts a friend." 

"Thank you." 

After a moment, he looked away. 

"You plan to go off and die alone when the Time comes, don't you." Resigned, she watched him go tense. But it had to happen, and the sooner the better. She did not know how much time they had left. "Spock, you have no right to make a decision like that without consulting me." 

"I have the right," he said ominously, "to expect you to respect my privacy." 

"Oh, come off it!" So much for the Vulcan Way. Screw the Vulcan Way. "This isn't about privacy. This is about life and death--or it will be sooner or later. Would you care to tell me which?" 

It had been months since she had seen his eyes narrowed in anger. "'Making a move' would seem to take variant forms." 

"You are a son of a bitch," she said without raising her voice, "and if I hadn't expected you to say something like that, it just might have worked." She had the satisfaction of seeing his eyebrows fly, but she was beyond stopping, and she had not yet played what she knew was her trump card. "I've heard you with Jill. Who do you think is going to make Jim real to her if you're dead? I barely knew the man." And without waiting for an answer, she got up and went into the bungalow. 

_Now_ , she thought. _Think that one over, and then we'll see about privacy_. 

Jill was asleep on one of the cots, long since separated and placed side-by-side on the floor in deference to the child's mobility. Sarah lay down on the other one, not bothering to undress. Exhilarated and still angry, she knew that she would not sleep soon. But it was good to feel angry, good to feel anything toward him without having to repress it. 

_Think that one over, and then we'll see_. 

Some time during the hours before she finally fell asleep, it occurred to her that she could not program the Genetic Synthesizer without a blood sample from him. But even that did not daunt her. Feeling that anything was possible, she finally fell asleep, knowing that Jill would not have to wake her tonight. 

  


She woke at dawn and went into the vegetable garden to check on the sprouts. There would be no rain today, she thought as she walked barefoot through the garden, carefully avoiding the tiny green shoots that were pushing up through the dirt. It was going to be a beautiful day, and Jill would have her swim after breakfast. 

Bending over, she picked up one of the myriad flower-ghosts that floated overland every spring. Dandelions, she called them, although they appeared to have been shaped more like violets when they were in their prime. Now she took one in her palm, and sensing Spock's presence, she turned. 

"I wish I could see one of these when it was more than a memory," she said wistfully. She raised her eyes to meet his. Bleak. He looked almost ill, she thought. It was a good thing she hadn't waited. This was going to take a while. She blew the ghost from her palm and watched it settle at his feet. "Like the past. Dust and ashes." Meeting his gaze again, she smiled and raised her eyebrows, Vulcan-like. 

"Don't you ever stay mad?" he asked. 

The question was so unexpected that she lost her smile and simply stared. "Not unless I work at it." The lightening sky was behind him, and she could not see his face clearly. But his stance suggested near-exhaustion. Still fighting? Or was he ready to give up? "This isn't really about sex, you know. That's not the least common denominator." 

"There is a probability of 99.99 percent" he said wearily, "that you are about to tell me what is." 

"Our humanity." 

He turned aside a little, head drooping, and sighed. "Must it always come to that?" 

"It's the only thing we have in _common_ , Spock!" 

"If I lose the Image, I lose my self." Quiet desperation there. "You do not understand what it means to be Vulcan." 

"Granted." She squinted a little, trying to see his face clearly. He did not sound like himself at all. "But there's a 99.99 percent probability that you understand what it means to be human a lot more than you're letting on." 

"Why haven't you tried to seduce me?" 

Well, go with the flow. "It's hard to explain." _Because you're so innocent_. No, that wouldn't do at all. But how else could she explain the certainty that unwilling seduction would violate him at a level she might never reach again? Believing with all her heart that she was incapable of doing that to him, she said finally, "People can rape one another's emotions as well as their bodies." Silence. "Now I suppose you're going to tell me that Vulcans don't have emotions." 

"We have emotions," he said as though reciting a lesson. "But we control them instead of permitting them to control us." 

"Humans can't do that." 

"But, Sarah--" Sheer exasperation. "'That' is precisely what you have just told me you are doing!" 

Throwing caution aside, she nevertheless approached him slowly. "No, don't pull away. I just want to feel your forehead. My God, Spock. You're burning up! Is it--" 

"No. It is not the Time." He straightened his shoulders and sighed again. "I am unwell, but it will pass." 

"How long have you had a fever?" 

Reluctantly: "Three point six seven days." 

"Anything else?" He swallowed. "Sore throat? Swollen glands?" 

"Sarah--" He stepped away and raised his hand. "Enough. It will pass." 

"You don't know that. You should rest." 

"I have something I must do first. Then I will rest if you wish it." 

"I wish it," she said firmly. "And I want to examine you too." 

"If you wish." 

"Promise?" 

He smiled then--an exhausted half-smile that frightened her more than it reassured her. "I promise." And then he was off, walking toward the hovercraft with a step that was much less steady than usual. 

When he returned half an hour later, he almost made it to the porch before he collapsed. 

None of the three of them had ever been sick, and Jill was terrified. Trying to reassure her, Sarah forced herself into her professional mode out of sheer psychological self-preservation. This was a different world for both of them, and she had only the contents of her traveling medikit with which to treat him. Unknowns compounded by inadequacies. And yet-- _You are a physician, Sarah_. Damn right. "Jill," she said quietly, supporting most of Spock's weight as she helped him to his room, "don't stand in front of me, little one. You can help Spock by not getting in my way. Stay in your room, please, so I know where you are. Because I _say_ so!" 

His clothing was drenched with sweat, in itself mute testimony to the severity of his illness, for the day was balmy and the breeze cool. By the time she had stripped him and covered him with both their blankets, he was shivering violently. Taking medical tricorder readings, she discovered what she had expected: high temperature, raw throat, neck glands badly swollen, a faint yellow rash all over his body. Could be anything. All she could be sure of was that he had not brought it to Tara with him. 

"Can you trance?" she asked him. 

"Perhaps." It was only a whisper, and she didn't have his complete attention. "I dropped something." It was a plea. Could he be delirious? "Where did I drop it?" 

"Tell me what it is, and I'll look for it." Wringing out a wet cloth, she wiped his face, remembering how he had cared for her while she was in labor. "I'm going to take a blood sample now." A twinge of guilt passed through her; she would have her sample after all, and much sooner than she had anticipated. But with so many unknowns, she had to have it in order to determine whether she could treat him with the limited pharmacopoeia at her disposal. "Can you rest a little?" But he had already tranced. 

"Jill," she called softly, fearing to leave his side. There was a scurrying sound in the hallway, and Jill was at the door. "Bring me that little case on the shelf in our closet." No questions. In a moment, the child was back, medikit in hand. And something else. 

"Spock dropped this when you were pulling him in here," Jill whispered. Staring at the gaunt, sallow face above the blankets, she laid a flower in Sarah's hand. 

It was a violet--soft, moist, and very much alive. 

When she could take her eyes off it, she looked at Spock. He was awake, and barely conscious. 

"I accept your gift of self," she said quietly, wondering what that gift might have cost him. 

Feverish eyes, half closed. She had to lean close to hear him whisper, "Someone should bring you flowers every day." And it came to her that he did not know who she was. The flower, no doubt, was for her. But the words.... 

" _I remind you of someone_." 

_"That was long ago--longer than you would believe...."_ "Can't you maintain the trance?" she asked. 

He did not answer, but closed his eyes and drifted into a light sleep. 

"What's wrong with him?" Jill whispered. 

"He's very sick." 

"What's sick?" 

Putting her arm around the child, Sarah drew her close. "What you see, little one. Just what you see. I can't explain it either." 

"When will he get unsick?" 

They kept vigil together throughout the long spring afternoon, sitting on the floor beside the futon. Outside, the birds--even the wingless ones in the kennel affirmed it--joined in chorus, announcing to all the world that they had returned to affirm their venue and stake out their territory. Sarah barely heard them. Her analysis showed that the virus that was ravaging Spock's body was very much at home in copper-based blood--another malignant gift, no doubt, from the Kiso. There was nothing in her kit that could touch it. 

Relieved that both she and her child were immune, she allowed Jill to remain in the room with her, glad of her company and knowing that it was better to keep her where she could not come to harm out of sight. 

Eventually, Jill fell asleep, her cheek pillowed on Dolly. It grew dark in the room, and the birdsong fell to a soft murmur. Armstrong was peering over the window sill when Spock opened his eyes. There was recognition in them, but she did not believe that it was for her. 

"Just rest," she said softly, bathing his face again. 

"Don't...leave...me." He could barely form the words. 

"I won't." 

Incredibly, he raised his hand to touch her face. "Don't...." There was a terrible urgency in him now. 

"I won't. I promise." 

"Sarah...promise...don't...let...her...forget...Jim." 

The nameless ghost of his past fled before four and a half years of reality, and she lay down beside him and took him in her arms. There was a furnace inside him, but she wasn't going to let go of him until it was gone. Not now. "We won't," she whispered, stroking his hair. "We'll never let her forget him. Don't worry. Go to sleep. She's never going to forget him...." 

In the darkest part of the night, the fever broke and he fell into a deep, natural sleep. 

She sat beside him on the floor for a while, watching his gaunt face in the light of the two moons whose shadows no longer disoriented her. This was her world now. The course of the rest of her life had been set, and she no longer had any regrets. When Spock recovered, she knew that he would probably remember little of what he had said while he was so ill, and that the whole route would have to be retraced, perhaps several times. All that mattered now was that whether they left Tara or spent the rest of their lives there, they would do it together. 

Near dawn, she took the sleepy Jill to bed, assuring her that Spock was now very unsick. Then, as a new sun rose over the white beach, she took the blood sample and the Genetic Synthesizer from her medikit and began to do her programming, looking up from time to time to notice how beautiful he was and wonder why she had never really noticed it before.


	3. Tara

# Tara

_Captain's personal log: Today I requested and received Starfleet permission to divert to Tara for a fallout check on our way back to Earth--four months from now, and four solar years since the Tara colony was destroyed by the Kiso shortly before the Emar attacked Epsilon Nine, the Federation outpost nearest the Klingon border. My crew is exhausted from four years of a war that nobody calls war but those of us who fought it. The Federation calls it keeping the peace. Starfleet calls it border patrol. I wonder what the Klingons call it. Water torture, perhaps. Both sides know that the Organians will not permit all-out war between us, but the Klingons have done their best to harass the Federation into breaking the peace treaty. The crews of all Constitution-class starships have almost forgotten what an exploratory mission is like. Instead of seeking out new life, we have been cheating the same death day after week after month and calling this grim process "containment." Now we have a new treaty, and please God, the peace has been kept. The border patrol will be over in four months, provided the Klingons don't violate the new treaty in that time. Then shore leave, and then the last two years of our original mission. Crew morale is improving as their thoughts turn homeward. I have every confidence that the prospect of a brief detour near the Centaurus system before we go on leave will not unduly upset anyone except McCoy, who knows why._

  


On the day that James Kirk made his log entry, Sarah woke shortly after dawn. Through the plastic screening on the window of the room she shared with her child, she could see the sky--very pale green just above the treetops. The research station, a portabungalow adjacent to a greenhouse and a miniature kennel, had been built in a clearing on the edge of Tower's Ring, but on the opposite side of the mountain from what had, at the time, been Tower City. From the front porch one could see the narrow beach leading to the bottomless green lake. The beach clearing stretched half a kilometer in either direction; at its ends, a rain forest curved to the water's edge, circled out and around behind the greenhouse and the kennel, and then back down to the water's edge again. At night, when one or both moons peeked over the Tower's shoulder, the beach was white as a field of unmelted snow. In the daytime, the sun beat down so unmercifully that the windows had to be closed and the sunshades drawn against the relentless white-hot reflection of sun off sand. But at dusk and particularly at dawn, when the cool of the night still lingered in the clearing, it was like a deep wooden bowl with a white bottom. Overhead, the sky was the color of springtime's first haze of buds on faraway Earth. 

Spock and Sarah had found the clearing and the deserted biological research station a few days after they had left the cave for the first time. The station was locked up and well stocked with thoroughly contaminated supplies, suggesting that the occupants had gone to Tower City for the day, but on the wrong day. The cages in the kennel were full of the disintegrating remains of small animals and large insects which had no doubt been research specimens. Cleaning the cages had not been a pleasant task, but it had been something to occupy the time. 

Still not fully awake, Sarah turned and looked over at Jill's cot. As she had sensed, the child was gone. On a star gazing expedition, no doubt. Spock would not take the child into the forest before sunrise, and there was little to see from the beach but the sky and the mountain. And Jill would not venture out alone. 

Sarah rose and braided her hair, now almost waist-length in back, into one long braid. That done, she dressed as she had every day for almost four years, in an off-white tunic and dark pants that had apparently been the uniform of the technicians at the station. It was the only clothing that the recycler would extrude. She and Spock had been able to set the controls for their own sizes, but the basic materials and style were unchangeable. The source of replacement footwear remained a mystery to them, and both of them had long since grown accustomed to walking barefoot in the sand, even as Jill did. 

When she came to the front porch, the stars had paled and disappeared in the dawn sky, although one white moon still peered around the mountain. Shadows lay across the sand, but somewhere a bird had awakened and was calling, perhaps to its mate. 

Jill and Spock were sitting on the sand, facing the lake, their backs to the bungalow. As Sarah came onto the porch, the child turned to look up at her companion. As she did so, the breeze caught her fair hair--the long, straight, lushly unkempt locks of a child whose hair has never been cut--and blew it forward around her face. Impatiently, she smoothed it back behind her ears--a characteristic gesture, rather well coordinated for a child of three and a half. But many of Jill's gestures were her mother's, and many others Spock's, for they were the only other intelligent sentients she had ever seen. Sarah knew now that she herself often smoothed her hair back in exactly that way, although she had never been aware of this until she saw Jill doing it and wondered why. The child's position on the sand--cross-legged, elbows on knees--exactly duplicated Spock's. As with Spock, it was an attempt to keep unusually long legs under control. For Jill's height genes were her mother's: when she stood up, as when she spoke, she seemed several years older than she was. 

Her skin, like Sarah's, was tanned. Her eyes, like her father's, were hazel. There was a light sprinkling of freckles across her nose, which she now wrinkled in disbelief as she turned toward Spock. Sarah thought her rather uncommonly beautiful, and suspected that Spock did too. 

"What'd they want to do that for?" The clear little voice drifted across the sand to Sarah, who wondered if Spock too could hear, in memory, another voice demanding _Explain_.... 

Spock's answer was inaudible, for Sarah was behind him and to his right, and Jill was immediately to his left. But it was apparently quite detailed. At first, Jill listened, totally absorbed. Then her eyes wandered, and she spied Sarah on the porch. 

"Mother." It was less a greeting than a simple acknowledgment of Sarah's presence, generically in a class with the Vulcan manner of answering the vidphone. Nor did Jill get up and run to her mother, attempting to fill her in on the morning's lesson. But as Spock continued with the informal lecture and Sarah joined them, sitting down on the other side of Jill, the child snuggled comfortably against her, even though her eyes remained on Spock. And Sarah, laying her arms gently around her child and resting her chin on Jill's head, marveled at the accuracy with which children receive unspoken messages. Spock was the center of Jill's life, the sun around which all else revolved. Yet Sarah had never seen the child attempt to touch him, let alone embrace him. Nor, to Sarah's knowledge, had he ever forbidden her to do so. But the message was there. 

The topic of discussion was Earth's failure, during the last quarter of the twentieth century, to follow several successful moon landings with the establishment of a lunar base. Listening, Sarah wondered if the child really understood that it was Terra's single moon that was being discussed, or even if she really grasped the meaning of "moon." Yet Jill's attention was completely focused on Spock. 

Who was it, Sarah wondered, who had taught him so well how to teach the young? Even when she had joined them, there had been no perceptible wavering of his attention from Jill. (Perceptible to the child, that is. Sarah had been totally aware that part of his consciousness had reached out to make her welcome.) His eyes were weary and shadowed, for he was still recovering from an attack of a malaria-like fever that had ravaged him for days while Sarah and Jill had remained mysteriously (perhaps humanly) untouched. While ill, and now during his convalescence, he had finally permitted himself a short beard and allowed his hair to grow a bit longer; the additions gave his gaunt face a slight fullness that Sarah thought extremely becoming, but he still looked too thin and far too pale to suit her. Yet as he spoke, he gave the child his full attention, not as a lesser being who was privileged to receive the gift of his knowledge, but as an equal whose right it was to share it. Unlike so many teachers that Sarah had known, he gave the impression that it was not the teacher or even the knowledge that was important, but the student. And watching him, Sarah found herself at last able to give words to the feelings that had stirred in her as she tended him in his illness and then joyfully watched him rally and begin to recover. 

Several times of late, she had tried on the idea of being "in love" as one tries on a new style of clothing, only to discard it as appealing in its way but not appropriate to the occasion. Neither profound affection or physical attraction seemed to adequately explain the ties that bound these two who had, in a very real sense, died and been reborn together, come out of darkness into the sunlight together, delivered a child together, and built a life together after the death of a world. She had not realized what was happening to them until he hovered near death, seemingly beyond the help of either her medical skills or his own healing techniques. During the last hours before the fever broke, she had known that he would surely die if she left him even for a moment, and known that he had known that too. Yet even when he had finally slipped into his first real sleep in days, she had been unable to find words for the utter peace and joy that filled her. Being "in love," it was said, was an uncertain thing, forever in flux. But there was no uncertainty here.... 

He paused, hunting for a word, looked from Jill to Sarah and smiled a little--a smile quite unlike the Spock she had met aboard the _Enterprise_ a lifetime ago. Plucked out of his professional milieu and away from his home world, he was, she knew, continuously restless and often bored to death. But the smile said as clearly as words: _It pleases me to have you near._ Sarah had seen it many times without recognizing it for what it was. But now she did recognize it, and as their eyes met above Jill's head, her own feelings found words as well: _You are my reality. I could no more live without you than I could live without breath. If this be love, then I love._

She knew instantly that he had somehow perceived her thought, and that the perception was intensely pleasurable to him. One eyebrow arched almost humorously, but his smile was now joyful as well as tender. Yet that very tenderness now struck an echo off a memory long past, and she seemed to hear herself saying _I remind you of someone._

He shook his head slightly, a barely noticeable movement. "Then, yes," he said softly. "Now, only Sarah." 

Jill looked up, glancing from one to the other. "Did I miss the beginning?" But Spock deftly drew her back to thoughts of worlds and their moons, and soon she was asking with equal interest: "Will we ever see Earth's moon?" 

"I believe," Spock answered gravely, "that we may not." 

Jill waited patiently. But when Spock did not elaborate, she asked, "Aren't you going to say probabilities?" 

"If you wish." He smiled again, almost in spite of himself, and Sarah sensed that he was no longer enjoying the conversation, that perhaps their silent communication had turned his mind to certain unavoidable consequences of their enforced isolation. "At present there is a probability of 36.4 percent that none of us will ever see any moon but Aldrin"--he indicated the pale crescent just visible over the Tower's shoulder--"and Armstrong. In any case, there is a probability of less than 10 percent that any starship will come here as long as the Kiso...." He hesitated, fully aware that one of his listeners was less than four years old. "As long as conditions remain as they were when your mother and I were marooned here. However, the chances increase with each passing year that other variables may affect the situation." He frowned slightly, and Sarah remembered a story he had told her while they were still in the cave--a story of two races, each half black and half white, fighting one another to annihilation. "In that event, you may see Lunaport in your lifetime--or any other moon you wish to see." Suddenly, he laid his hand lightly on Jill's head. "It is my hope that you will," he finished, no longer impassive. And Sarah was reminded of the little princess who asked for the moon, and of the king who loved her too much to say no. 

Then he withdrew his hand and stood up, again expressionless. And both of his listeners knew that the lesson was over. When Jill scrambled to her feet, eager to shadow him, he shook his head. "Remain with your mother," he said gently. "I shall be in the hovercraft this morning." 

He did not look at Sarah as he spoke, and she knew his meaning even though they had never discussed his use of the hovercraft he had guided by remote control to the lake shore just before he and Sutek had entered the cave together. The craft was solar-powered, and had remained functional. Over the years Spock had used it infrequently, at first perhaps only once every few months, for there was nowhere to go and nothing to see except miles of rain forest and one relatively small crater. But the little craft was literally the only thing in the world that Spock could fly--he who had spent almost half his life exploring the stars. And so, at times when a human male would have paced the beach, raging at the fates that had deprived him of the life on which his intellect thrived, Spock took to the clouds. 

Sarah understood the need that drove him there, and frequently felt it herself. But this morning, as she watched him stride down the beach to where the hovercraft sat in the sand, she began to wonder if it was more than boredom that troubled his mind and heart today. 

As the sun rose above the trees, she and Jill breakfasted on a bland, filling fruit much like a banana and a porridge-like concoction that she had learned to make from ground nuts and water. Then, with the leftovers in hand, they went to the kennel to feed the few animals they kept there at the moment--a bird with only the stumps of wings, a small squirrel-like creature with no legs, and another born blind. Although the Kiso had murdered every humanoid on the planet but for three, others had remained to suffer. Most of those mutated by radiation had already died off. But a few had lived to reproduce, and still their descendants appeared from time to time in the clearing. Their numbers dwindled as the years passed, and these days the kennel was sometimes nearly empty. But neither Spock nor Sarah had ever been able to leave a deformed animal to die unprotected, and Jill had become quite skillful at finding tenants for their private zoo. 

This morning the child fed the animals while Sarah watched idly, her mind on other matters. 

She realized that, to another human, her present situation would seem incomprehensible if not ludicrous. She had spent four years in isolation with a healthy male who had barely touched her hand in all that time, and who would shortly--if he was not already doing so--begin to suffer the tortures of the damned at the prospect of their inevitable sexual union. T'Loreth's instruction in the attitudinal aspects of the sexually mature Vulcan had been extensive and detailed. Sarah knew that, to a male raised as a Vulcan, sexuality was a violation of the self, a ripping away of control that was necessary for the preservation of the race. How such a psychic aberration had developed in an otherwise rational society Sarah could not imagine, and even T'Loreth was vague on the subject. But the cause was not her problem; Spock's attitude was. To be trapped by one's biology and stripped of one's rationality was bad enough. But now, when she knew that Spock wanted to make love to her on purely human terms, he found himself on the verge of an enforced, non-human sexual relationship with a woman he had come to love. Small wonder that he sought solitude for meditation. And small wonder that Sarah was caught between loving empathy and helpless exasperation.... 

She suddenly realized that Jill had opened the cage occupied by the legless squirrel and laid her hand gently on the animal's tiny head. At first she thought that the child was about to stroke him. But when Jill's hand did not move, her mother was seized by a deep uneasiness. 

"Jill," she asked, moving closer, "what are you doing?" 

"Listening to Chedo." Jill used the name Spock had given the creature. But her voice had a dreamy quality that Sarah did not like. 

Quickly, she went to the child and removed her hand from the cage, closing the door. "What do you mean, listening?" 

"Like Spock listens," Jill answered serenely. 

"Did he say it was all right for you to do it?" 

Jill smiled a smile that took Sarah back four years. "I didn't ask him." 

"Why not?" 

"I knew he'd say no." Innocent stare. _Why do you think?_

For a moment Sarah had the impression that she had actually heard the last four words, and bit back a quick rejoinder: _Don't be smart._

Jill blinked. 

What foolishness. What Jill had been thinking was more than obvious, and what Sarah had been thinking was no doubt just as obvious to the child. And yet.... "You will not 'listen' to animals," she said firmly, fighting a dread that she could not define. 

"Why?" 

"It's dangerous." Jill had never been taught about "naughty" or "bad." But she had been well taught about "dangerous." 

"Why is it dang'rous?" 

"Well--let me think how to explain it." How to explain it? "Let's finish feeding the animals, and then I'll try." 

But Jill's attention wandered immediately. "Can we go swimming?" 

"I suppose. But wait for me." Still working on the problem of explaining the dangers of unskilled telepathic communication with animals to a child of less than four, Sarah fed the other creatures and turned to find that Jill had already left the kennel. 

She was almost certain that the child would not take to the water without her. Jill had been taught to obey immediately any orders that had to do with the lake or the forest. Infractions were speedily punished by relatively prolonged confinement indoors, which Jill hated. But she was growing more independent by the day. Sarah quickly closed all the cages, more against the invasion of predators than to confine the occupants, and headed for the beach. 

She rounded the corner of the bungalow and stopped short, unable to find her voice. 

This was not the first time that the gigantic insect that had cured Sutek's blindness had ventured across Tower's Ring for a visit. The year that Jill was two, the creature had come often to inspect their dwelling, never venturing very near, but obviously curious about how these strange two-legged animals were arranging their lives. They had never actually seen her swim the lake, just as they had never really learned whether she had tunneled out of the mountain while the surface was still radioactive. But somehow she got across the lake and back again, for she now spent most of her time inlaying the Tower with her eggs. She appeared not to be ill or crippled in any way. Jill had grown accustomed to seeing the creature on the mountain, and even the sight of her moving slowly up the beach was no more unusual than the sight of an aircar landing would have been to a child in a normal environment on a civilized world. So it was not surprising that this particular human child should view an ant as long as a man is tall with more curiosity than fear. 

But never had Jill and the huge insect approached each other as closely as they had this morning. When Sarah came around the corner, the ant was almost close enough to Jill for her antennae to touch the child's forehead. 

Sarah choked back a cry, her mind filled with conflicting impulses. Stand still, Spock had said. Don't frighten her. _But she's so close to Jill._ Never had the creature harmed anything, large or small, as far as they knew. _But she's so close._ And Sutek was dead. 

At that moment, the animal's holding maxillae reached out and grasped Jill, even as they had grasped Sutek. 

"No." Sarah took several steps forward. "Let go of her." Still moving slowly, she continued forward. "Let go of her." 

The creature immediately released Jill and moved meekly away, apparently puzzled but not frightened. The child stood still, hugging herself as though she were chilled, facing away from Sarah and toward the ant. 

"Go away now. Please go away," Sarah repeated steadily, coming between Jill and the ant. Then she looked at her child, and forgot everything else. 

Jill's eyes were blank. There was neither recognition nor intelligence in them. 

Without thought, Sarah caught the child in her arms and sank down on the ground, gathering the limp little body close. Her medical training might have suggested half a dozen different treatments for a small child in danger of death. But none of them occurred to her. She knew only that her child was slipping away, and she hung on literally for dear life. 

And in that moment she knew quite clearly that Sutek had fallen backwards out of life because there was no one to hold him in it, that death had swallowed him up because there was no one to stop the fall. But later, when she remembered that insight briefly, it seemed irrational, and she forgot it again--only to remember it years later, when it was she who was falling into the abyss. 

Finally, finally, Jill's arms went around her neck, and she knew that her child was safe. She found herself murmuring incoherently, her face buried in Jill's hair. And she thought, _My God, what am I doing? This child was dying._

"I had arms." Jill's breath came in gasps that were like sobs, but there were no tears. It was Sarah who was crying. "I had arms!" 

"Little one, you still have arms. It's Chedo who--no, listen--" 

But the child was hysterical now. In despair, Sarah slapped her face, and then held her tight until the hysteria subsided. Then she discovered that Jill had no memory at all of anything that had happened after the ant touched her, least of all of anything she had said out loud. 

By the time Sarah thought to look for her, the creature had disappeared. 

  
That night, Sarah and Spock did not walk on the lake shore as they often did after Jill was asleep, but stayed close to the bungalow, listening for the child to cry out in her sleep. 

"Tell me again exactly what she said." Spock had stretched out prone on the sand next to where Sarah was sitting, a position he now assumed more and more frequently as his former life grew more distant and the psychic claims of this new world more immediate. But he was not at ease. He remained propped on his elbows, his eyes on her face. 

"She said, 'I had no arms,'" Sarah repeated, believing it. "It was because she'd been 'listening' to Chedo. Somehow --" 

"It is not logical, Sarah, for her to have associated the mutant chedo with an insectoid creature unless there was some reason for her to connect the two." 

"I don't know what really happened. I was just too terrified. But she seems all right now." 

"Indeed." But he was frowning. 

"Doesn't she?" Spock raised his eyebrows slightly as she appeared to question her own statement. "Oh, Spock--if you could have seen her." She closed her eyes momentarily, and they were silent. Then: "You could find out what really happened to her." 

"No," he answered firmly. "Only the parent is permitted contact." 

"Jill isn't a Vulcan child." When he did not answer, she went on gently, "She'll probably never know her own father until she's grown up, if then...." 

The thought was so clear that it almost seemed that she had thought it herself. She turned to stare at him, but he looked away. They were silent for several moments, and then she said quietly, "No. It's not irrational. He would come back if he thought you were alive." 

"If he were going to return, it would have been long before this." Spock's voice was very low, but he had turned to look at her again. "The _Enterprise_ sensors are much more sophisticated than my tricorder. He would have known when the radiation would dissipate." 

"Maybe he's under some kind of orders not to come here." 

The smile was so brief that she barely had time to be astounded before it was gone. She had never seen him smile like that. If he had been all human, he would have laughed out loud. 

"Perhaps." 

"Spock--" 

"It's been almost four years, Sarah." He was no longer smiling, but there was no conviction in his voice. Only confusion. Again she perceived his thought clearly: _I know he is coming back. Yet he does not come._ "The radiation was gone in four months. If he were going to return here, he would have done so long ago." Utter confusion. 

"That's not what you really think." 

"Think?" he repeated softly. 

"Not what you believe, then." 

"What I--'believe' is irrelevant." 

"Because it's not logical." No answer. "You--think we'll never leave here." 

He looked up then, directly into her eyes. "Are you suggesting that I was not predicting as accurately as I could this morning?" 

"Of course you were. I'm sorry. But Jill might be grown up by then. It'll be too late to find out...." Her voice trailed off. This discussion was not going to get them anywhere, on track or on tangent. As long as the words _too late_ had been said, this was as good a time as any to settle matters between them. "Just like it'll be too late for you." 

He lowered his head only slightly, but it was enough to put his face in shadow. Yet she could see that his jaw was tight, and she looked away, out across the lake now turning black under the black sky. Tearing at his privacy was like tearing at his soul, and she hated it. 

He moved then--rolled over and sat up all in one motion, shifting his position so that he too sat with his back against a low rise in the ground just off the porch, making an edge for the beach. But as he leaned back, he reached out, his fingers brushing hers for just a moment--lightly, gently. There was very little of the conventional human lover in that touch, and nothing at all of sophistication, or intimacy, or calculated eroticism. Clearly, he simply wanted to touch her, and that quite urgently. 

When she could speak again, she asked unsteadily, "Is there a Vulcan word for 'love'?" 

"Yes." A long pause. "It is a semantic analogue only. 'Love' has many imprecise connotations." Another pause, but Sarah knew that he was genuinely trying to think his way past the language barrier. "You could not pronounce it," he finished finally, barely above a whisper. "Nor could I explain it in your language." 

"In Vulcan, then." He looked at her sharply, and she continued in his language. "In Vulcan I speak awkwardly but understand much." 

He stared at her for a moment, and then began to speak. She understood little more than half of the actual words, for many of them were abstractions that she had never encountered in her work. But, as she had that morning, that she understood much more than the words he spoke aloud. 

Finally he was silent, his gaze holding hers. Seeing that he was still deeply troubled and now unable to continue, she knew that she must speak to rid him of any misapprehension. 

"Please don't worry about me," she said with great gentleness, knowing what her words would do to him, but knowing also that they must be said. "I'm a physician, Spock. There's nothing else you have to explain to me that I didn't know before I left Vulcan." 

His eyes went bleak, but did not shift away as she had expected. When he finally spoke, it was with difficulty. "I should have preferred that you had been given a real choice." 

"But I have chosen." Half expecting him to pull away, she reached out and touched his cheek. "You knew that this morning." 

He gave no audible answer, but extended his hand toward her face in a manner uniquely Vulcan. And Sarah bowed her head, her joy gone. 

"Please don't. I'm not a telepath. I'm psi-null." 

"Oh, Sarah," he answered gently, "what nonsense." When she looked up, startled: "We have been intermittently _en rapport_ for weeks." He touched her chin lightly, tilting it upwards. "Your barriers are very strong--stronger than any I have ever encountered. You only lower them unconsciously, and only with me--perhaps with Jill too. But you can learn to do it consciously. Will you try?" 

She knew how much it meant to him, and partially understood how much their commitment would suffer if he could not reach her telepathically. And so she nodded--and suddenly began to perceive exactly what he had meant by strong barriers. 

She had been an only child who had lost her parents when she was eight. When her mother's brother and his wife had taken her into their family, she had suddenly found herself living in a fairly small house with two adults and six other children, all telepathic broadcasters. She had learned quickly to defend her sanity, as well as the only privacy she had--the privacy of her mind. By the time she had arrived on Vulcan years later, her mind was so completely shielded that even Vulcans were unable to perceive her presence. And because she had succeeded so well in defending herself, reversing the process was sheer agony. 

In the end, she could stand the contact only for a moment--but not only because of the psychic stress of the effort. From Spock's mind she received only one image: that of a woman's upturned face, framed in a fur collar, her hair tossed by a relentless wind. But the visual image was not isolated. Along with it she perceived Spock's remembered anguish in full measure. She understood immediately that it was remembered anguish only, and that he now felt a gentle, lingering sadness rather than pain at the memory. But the visual image made the contact too much to bear for more than a moment. For the face she saw in his memory was her own. 

She came to herself sitting in the sand, weeping, her bowed head against his chest as he gently stroked her hair. The contact had already sensitized her immeasurably to him. She was aware that he had learned much more of her than she had of him, and that his new knowledge had given him great joy. But still...."Oh, Spock, is it Sarah you've chosen? Are you sure?" 

"You will know, Sarah. Be patient. You will know my mind and my heart soon enough." Again he raised her chin, using his other hand to brush the tears away. "Don't cry. I told you--now, only Sarah." And there was no sadness in him now. He seemed happier and more relaxed than she had ever seen him. 

"What is it? Please tell me." 

"I will." He was not smiling, but his eyes were alight, as though a heavy burden had fallen from him. "You did love each other in a way, you and Jim. I do not understand...how. But it wasn't--it didn't happen the way I thought it did." 

Incredulous, she shook her head. "Did my whole life pass before you or what?" 

"It is a true memory, and a happy one." 

"True...?" 

"One you will not forget." A pause. "No, Sarah, I am not jealous." 

"Why?" she asked, prepared to be told that jealousy is not logical. 

"You did not choose him," he answered serenely. "You chose me." 

  
For the next month, Sarah was totally involved in the unique experience of adjusting to two sets of memories instead of one. 

She had assumed that the major adjustment would be to having another person almost continuously "reading" her mind. She had not anticipated this with much pleasure, and was disturbed by the fact that Spock was aware of her apprehension regarding her mental privacy but not unduly concerned about it. A Vulcan might accept the necessity of sharing his private thoughts with a mate, and she was doing her best to accept it as well. But it was not easy, and she wondered at his uncharacteristic insensitivity to her ambivalence. 

But once the bonding link was fully established, she realized that he had not been insensitive, but merely biding his time. The total sharing of all thoughts that she had anticipated simply did not happen. The link was largely empathetic; physical contact, even a brief touching of hands, usually brought the mate's thoughts into focus, and with that an awareness that one's own thoughts were being shared as well. Strong emotional concord seemed to act as a conduit, even without contact. But she soon found that her thoughts were still largely her own, even when he was nearby. She was always keenly aware of his mood, to a much greater degree than she had been before the bonding. But she was still very much her own person, and felt some remorse at the memory of her unjustified assumptions. 

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked once. 

But Spock merely raised an eyebrow. "Would you have believed me if I had?" 

Only gradually did she realize that she now carried all of his memories in her unconscious mind, even as he now carried hers. The major events of his life had been consciously perceived. She knew the anguish of T'Pring's rejection, the horror of Jim's apparent death, the pain of Spock's long estrangement from his father, even the sting of Amanda's slap and the muted agony of the hours that followed it. She also knew how I-Chaya's tongue felt, what a Vulcan child learns at the time of his initial bonding, even the size and atmosphere and lingering sounds and smells of Sarek's house in ShiKahr. But other things came to her consciousness more slowly. 

Often she would wake in the night after seemingly inexplicable dreams. Once she was in the engine room of the _Enterprise_ , standing with Jim and a tall, thin alien, both of them laughing at...a puff of smoke? Another time, she seemed to be inside a mouse hole, with a gigantic black cat pawing at the entrance. A strange, vaguely feminine face nodded benignly as she pushed a wheel chair over barren ground; the man in the chair was a hopeless cripple, horribly deformed. Then there was no one in the chair, and an almost too-handsome figure in Starfleet gold was walking away with a lovely young girl. Another time she was in an arena with McCoy--a gladiator, it seemed. But was that an old-style television camera? 

One dream recurred. Jim lay nearby, either hurt or terribly ill. _"Don't let them break you,"_ he whispered, and then a cup smashed somewhere and she woke, fighting waves of pain and fear and terrible anger that stayed with her even after she was awake. 

But other events in his life were currently far too present in his conscious memory for her to have to experience them initially in dreams. 

At her first contact with his memories of Leila Kalomi, Sarah had believed that he had imagined the incident. Only later did she realize that the blurred, fantasy-like quality of those memories was due not only to his abnormal mental state at the time, but also to the fact that he was convinced that the incident would never have happened if he had been in his right mind. She could not fault his logic on that, although she was at once moved almost to tears and exasperated beyond words that he should find it so necessary to obliterate the aura of reality from his memory of his first love. But no Vulcan would have made love to Leila, and Spock considered himself a Vulcan. The conclusion of this unhappy syllogism was obvious: although Spock was intellectually aware of what had happened, his emotions denied it; although he was too honest to tell himself that it never happened and repress the memory, he was able to maintain his Vulcan self-image by telling himself that it never would have happened but for the spores, and unconsciously coloring his memory of Leila with an aura of fantasy. 

Not so with Zarabeth. For between the two incidents had come another that had made it impossible for Spock to deny that he was in many ways quite human. 

Sarah had been hard put to contain her embarrassed amusement when she first encountered his memory of the Romulan commander whom he had briefly diverted while his captain relieved the enemy of their cloaking device. But she knew that Spock found nothing amusing in the fact that the Romulan had called forth what Sarah had promptly dubbed good old-fashioned lust, largely uncomplicated by the romantic tenderness he had felt for Leila. The experience had sobered him considerably. But his reaction had little relationship to the guilt that a human with similar anti-sexual conditioning would have felt; his concerns were otherwise. There had been no spores on the premises when he had boarded the Romulan flagship. Vulcan biology to the contrary, that had been a near thing, proving him much more human than he had ever believed himself to be. 

Troubled but resolute, he had come to a decision. The hypothalamic mechanism that enabled Vulcans to control pain, fear, and anger could also be used to control a half Vulcan's human sexual impulses. Now that he knew the extent of his own susceptibility, he was prepared, and could deal with such a situation in the Vulcan manner. 

Had it not been for Zarabeth, Sarah was convinced that she could have argued him out of this position simply by appealing to his sense of humor. But those brief hours in Sarpeidon's ice age had left him with a devastating human guilt that he had never felt before in connection with his sexuality. With Leila he had been in love with love, drunk with the fantasy that he belonged somewhere after a lifetime of belonging nowhere. And when he had left Leila, she had been among friends, with the promise of a new and more worthwhile life. But Zarabeth's icebound cave was no Eden to lure him with false promises, and his time there no dream of Paradise. His memories of those hours ached with regret that was very real, very clear, and not blurred at all: he had left her more alone than she had ever been. _Had I been truly Vulcan, I should have left her as I found her._ That agonized self-reproach had shaped his future life and his attitudes as significantly as his Vulcan heritage had. For if he had ever doubted that uncontrolled emotion would bring nothing but unhappiness, he did not doubt it now. 

In despair, Sarah wished that his attitudes were the result of what Earthmen still called a sex hangup. She could have dealt with that, and even with the peculiarly Vulcan aversion to the rut-like mindlessness of plak tow. But it was not sex that Spock feared. It was the loss of his identity, the loss of his Vulcan sense of self. And that fear was reinforced by both cultural conditioning and intellectual conviction--a combination of staggering proportions. 

Yet even in her despair, Sarah was determined to bide her time. Already their isolation had changed him; the Spock who would stretch out on the sand beside her of an evening was not the impassive first officer of the _Enterprise_ , not even the confused half human son of Sarek. And in the weeks since they had first attained telepathic rapport, they had come closer in spirit than they had been before. It seemed to her very possible that the touching of minds would continue to lead to more complete intimacy. 

They were both aware that the Time of Mating was approaching--Spock from bitter experience, and Sarah because of her contact with his mind. Outwardly, he appeared completely normal, and no one not mentally _en rapport_ with him would have noticed any change. But Sarah knew that he was experiencing a mild but increasing emotional tension somewhat like a floating anxiety. The cause was entirely physical. Mentally and emotionally he seemed resigned rather than apprehensive. But that resignation was a bit too reminiscent of quiet despair for Sarah to be encouraged by it. 

She knew that a decision had to be made before it was too late: whether the two of them should attempt to implant the Genetic Synthesizer that would enable her to conceive. 

On the day of their arrival on Tara, she had brought an example of this revolutionary piece of equipment to show the governor-general and his staff. When they had been uninterested because of more pressing concerns, she had dropped the tiny disk into her medical kit, still in its transparent sterile shield, intending to put it back with the rest of her equipment when she had the chance. That chance had never come, and the disk had remained in her medikit with the instruments necessary for its implantation, a procedure as simple as starting an IV would have been to a twentieth-century Terran physician. Unfortunately, however, the location of the implant was the brachial artery of her own left arm, and the procedure required two hands. 

"No." Spock's answer was abrupt and spoken aloud when she communicated her wishes to him. They were walking together on the beach after Jill was asleep, and he stopped in his tracks and put both hands behind his back. "I am not a physician, Sarah. What you propose is impossible." 

Undeterred, she described the procedure, which she had performed dozens of times on Vulcan. As he listened reluctantly, Spock shifted his gaze away from her, and she knew that he was indeed listening. As a trained scientist, he knew that the procedure would be child's play for him, even without further instruction. And it required only a local anesthetic for her. 

When she stopped speaking, he asked simply, "Why?" 

"We may spend our lives here." She took his arm, and they began to walk slowly again. "I think we should live as normally as we can--as much like we otherwise would as we can." Silence. Finally she said very softly, "I want to bear your child. A chosen child." 

Touching him as she was, she could not fail to perceive the effort it cost him to remain in control. After a moment he said huskily, "My Sarah, that is an emotional reason." 

She knew that the possessive had slipped out unintentionally, and that he regretted it. So she forced herself to keep from putting her arms around him and instead laid her cheek briefly against his shoulder. They had come as far down the beach as they ever did when Jill was asleep, and they both turned automatically to retrace their steps. 

"Not necessarily. It's part of the commitment--the 'love' as you explained it to me." 

"Yes." It was barely a whisper, and they did not speak again. But when they reached the bungalow, they went with one accord to the laboratory. 

By the following evening, Sarah knew that they had acted none too soon. 

  
In the gray-green light that followed sunset on Tara, Sarah sat on the edge of Jill's cot, holding the child in her arms as she drifted into sleep. She had explained that the warm drink would make Jill sleep for a long time, but that Spock and her mother would be there while she slept to take care of her. Jill's innocent trust had brought tears to Sarah's eyes, for her emotions were already aroused. She knew that she could choose to mentally tune out her awareness of her mate's physical pain and emotional turmoil. But she had chosen to remain closely linked with him, knowing that her comfort and reassurance was all that stood between him and total isolation and despair. 

"Why must I sleep so long?" Jill asked, yawning against Sarah's shoulder. 

Sarah thought for a moment, her cheek resting against the child's hair. "There's something very important that I have to do." 

"What is it?" Jill asked, her voice already heavy with sleep. 

"I can't pronounce it," Sarah whispered. But Jill was already asleep. 

  
She had permitted herself no illusions about the Time of Mating, so she could not be disillusioned. As a physician, she understood the dimensions of the biological imperative that Vulcan's call plak tow, and knew that her mate would probably be incapable of human sexual rapport while in its grip. And so she went to him with wistful resignation as well as loving commitment, telepathically unsophisticated and utterly ignorant of a truth much more fundamental than all of her objective medical facts: if even a relatively superficial touching of minds could cause her to weep with his pain, this deepest of all links could not fail to cause her to burn with his fire. 

She could not call it love that they shared, or even desire. Nothing in her human experience had prepared her for the overwhelming need for physical union that consumed them both. But to her great relief as well as his, the violated self was partially soothed, and the spectre of the violated mate partially mitigated, because she too was on fire. In her innocence, she began to hope that once this Time was over, they could be new together without pain, and without shame. 

Her innocence, however, was short-lived. For she had neglected to remember that it was not his conscience that would be torn to pieces by the human act of love, but his hard-won sense of self.  


  


Three months later, the _Enterprise_ left the well-traveled space lanes for a brief mission that had been approved by Starfleet at the captain's request. 

When McCoy learned that Kirk had requested and received permission to return to Tara, he was at first speechless and then more than articulate. But he waited until they were alone in Kirk's quarters before expressing his opinion. 

"Have a drink," Kirk suggested calmly when the doctor paused for breath. When McCoy began to sputter, the captain went on gently, "Bones, you know what's really bothering you, don't you? I've just had a complete checkup, and you can't find anything wrong with me. Considering the way we've spent the last four years, my psych profile's beyond reproach. So you can't order me around or raise hell with Starfleet about this. Isn't that it?" 

McCoy ignored the question, but accepted the drink Kirk offered him. "And another thing. Scotty's been a damn good First. Do you think it's fair to him carry on as though Spock were still alive?" 

"I'm not...carrying on," Kirk answered without raising his voice. "And Scotty understands." 

"Well, I don't." 

"Obviously." Kirk swirled the drink in his glass. "Bones, Spock is there. I'm as sure of that as I was four years ago." 

They stared at each other in silence for a moment, and then McCoy asked softly, "Can you explain what you just said so it makes sense?" 

"You know I can't." Abruptly, Kirk drained his glass. "It was only a forty megaton blast. The radiation will be long gone. We'll do a complete sensor scan, and if there's nothing, well--there's nothing." 

"And you'll forget about this?" 

"I'll try, Bones. I'll do my best." 

And McCoy seemed to hear a voice from the past: _"I do not understand human obsession...."_ But Jim did not seem obsessed. Just dead sure. And his psych profile was a thing of beauty. 

  
As the _Enterprise_ assumed standard orbit around Tara, the bridge crew became unusually silent. The ship had been in space without crew replacements for four years; with the exception of LLieutenant-Commander DeVecchio, the science officer, it was the same group that had worked with Spock before the holocaust. Standing near the center seat, McCoy was sure that none of them believed that Spock was alive, and that the major cause of their silence was the same tension they had all felt after the blast when Kirk had ordered several additional sensor scans after everyone else knew it was hopeless. They loved their captain even as McCoy did and, sharing his grief, they could only wish that he would spare himself the pain of useless hope. And yet there was more to it than that. Except for DeVecchio, they had all seen flashes of James Kirk at his worst: didactic, arrogant, demanding obedience even though he himself suspected that he was behaving unreasonably. But there was none of that in the captain's manner today. McCoy could not help but wonder whether the rest of them felt the surge of expectation that he could not suppress within himself. The whole idea was insane. And yet Jim was so sure. 

"Begin sensor scan, Mr. DeVecchio," Kirk ordered quietly. "And take your time. The Federation will want a complete report on surface conditions as well as radiation traces." 

"Yes, sir." DeVecchio bent over his scanner and began his painstaking search of the planet's surface. 

It was only a few moments after he had reported the site of Tower City bare but the level of radiation tolerable that he drew in his breath sharply. 

"Captain --" 

"Report, mister." For the first time, Kirk's voice showed tension. 

"Two humanoid readings, sir. Human. An adult female and a small child." 

"I'll be damned," McCoy said softly. "Survivors." Then, uneasily: "I wonder where they were when the thing went off." 

"Anything else?" Kirk snapped. 

"No, sir. Nothing in that vicinity, anyway. They're on the opposite side of the mountain from where the city used to be." 

Kirk ordered the science officer to record the exact coordinates and then used his intercom to direct that a landing party be assembled in the transporter room. "Dr. McCoy and I will be there shortly. Kirk out." He turned to McCoy, his expression beginning to show signs of strain. "If two survived--" 

"Spock was in Tower City, Jim. This woman and her child...." McCoy's voice trailed off. He stared at Kirk, not really seeing him. "Mr. DeVecchio, how tall is the child?" 

"Bones...?" 

"I want to find out," McCoy said carefully, "whether the child was in utero when the bomb went off." Twenty-three thousand people, he thought. _She wasn't the only pregnant woman down there._ His idea was as far-fetched as Jim's, but its implications could be far more tragic. He was beginning to feel a little sick. "A child of less than four would probably stand about 102 centimeters or less." 

DeVecchio read off the data. "Humanoid female, homo sapiens, 106.8 centimeters The mother is 180 centimeters--if it's the mother." 

"That would make her about five years old," McCoy said softly. "Unless she's tall." Even more softly: "Like her mother." He glanced at Kirk, but the captain had forgotten him. 

The sensor scan went on, moving slowly away from Tower City and eventually to the other side of the planet. Time crawled by, and the watch neared its end. The transporter room inquired whether the landing party should beam down without Kirk and McCoy, and if so, could they have the coordinates, please. Kirk answered snappishly, telling the landing party to stand by. The sensor scan crawled on, finally arriving back at its starting point. 

"That's it, sir," DeVecchio said quietly. "I've been on a tight surface scan. Shall I check for tropospheric?" 

The silence was terrible. 

"Yes," Kirk said finally. "Dr. McCoy, beam down with the landing party. The survivors may need medical attention." He got up, moving as though he were sleepwalking. But his voice sounded almost normal. "Mr. Scott, you have the con." For the first time, Kirk looked at McCoy, who saw no grief. No shock. Simply complete and total bewilderment. "When the landing party beams up, leave orbit." And the captain left the bridge, taking over the lift from the arriving relief personnel. 

McCoy saw that Uhura was sitting with her hand shading her eyes, and Scott was very pale as he took the center seat. Sulu and Chekov did not look at one another. DeVecchio went on scanning, his relief waiting patiently behind him. 

McCoy cleared his throat. "Scotty, I'm going to the transp--" 

"Mr. Scott!" 

DeVecchio had almost shouted, and everyone on the bridge jumped. But before Scott could answer him, he went on. "He's there, sir. It's a Vulcan reading. He's flying something. A small craft. Aircar. Or maybe a hovercraft." 

McCoy was at the science officer's shoulder in an instant. "Tony, that's impossible. You just scanned the whole planet." 

"On tight setting, sir. Everything above ten meters was off my screen." 

"Are you sure it's a Vulcan reading?" 

"Yes, sir. No doubt about it." 

"Sutek was a Vulcan too." McCoy turned to Scott. "Don't notify Jim until we beam down and make sure." 

"But, Doctor--the poor mon is in a bad way--" 

"You underestimate the captain, Mr. Scott." McCoy was already heading for the lift. "He'll be fine unless we raise his hopes and then shatter them. _Then_ he just might be in a bad way." He paused, his eyes holding Scott's. "Please, Scotty. This won't take long. Wait until I find out for sure." 

  
It was midafternoon, and Tara's sun was high and warm in the sky. Jill had dozed off on the sand, and Sarah had carried her inside, hoping that Spock would not return in time to catch her in the act. She knew her strength and her limitations, and was sure that continuing to lift Jill would harm neither her or the child she now carried. Yet she had to admit that it was pleasant to lie in the cool half darkness while Jill napped nearby. She did tire more easily now, and spent most of her time feeling as though she could sleep away the next six months. But that would pass, she knew. 

This was the first time that Spock had taken to the clouds since she had become his wife. She did not understand why, and knew that he didn't either. An inexplicable restlessness had overtaken him that morning, to the point where he seemed almost agitated. He had been convinced, and had convinced her, that there was no danger threatening them. Yet somehow he could not manage to stay in one place, and had gone flying in the hope of putting his unexplained tension to rest. 

She had not asked him how long he would be gone, not wanting to appear possessive or demanding. Their relationship was delicately balanced at the moment, and she knew that if there was to be a next step, he must be the one to take it. Just the evening before, she had already gone too far; only his control and her essential balance had saved them from a disastrous quarrel. 

Initially, she had wondered if his desire to fly today had been triggered by a need to get away from her. But then, just before he set off down the beach to the hovercraft, he came to her and laid his hand on her shoulder. In the moment of silent communication, she had understood that although he was troubled about their life together, his confidence in their ability to resolve their differences was as deep as hers, and that his roving today had nothing at all to do with her. _Be patient, my Sarah. All will be well._ The deep affection and confidence in that silent message would have reassured her even without the gentle touch of his hand on her shoulder and then on her forehead, lightly brushing back a wisp of hair blown askew by the wind. 

Yet only last night, as they returned from their walk, he had perceived her intensely human desires all too clearly, and his steps had slowed as they neared the porch. 

"Sarah." It was only a whisper. "If I came to you now as I did then, I would not be Spock, but someone else. I would lose myself--even as I did with Leila, and with Zarabeth." 

_But that's not true!_ She kept the communication mental, knowing that if she spoke aloud, the words would shatter the still evening air. 

"You don't understand," he had said, frowning slightly and beginning to turn away. 

"Spock." The quiet insistence in her voice stopped his withdrawal, and he turned to her again, his eyes searching hers, knowing that there had been a sudden and profound change in her mood. She went on quietly, calmly, without intent to hurt, but realizing that the time had come to make the first demand she had ever made of him. "Don't ever tell me again that I don't understand what it means to be Vulcan. I deserve better than that from you now." 

If the human in him took offense he gave no sign, outwardly or otherwise. He studied her face, obviously considering the truth of her statement with objective honesty. Then he simply nodded, still returning her gaze steadily. 

"And if making love to me now seems to you like self-betrayal, then it would be. I understand that too. But 'as I did then' is a false analogy, and you know that as well as I do." 

He looked away then, and she knew that he would not answer. Nor was there any point in her saying any more. Until the next time. 

Resting in the late afternoon of the next day, she felt again the implacable impasse of their conversation. And for the first time she realized with total clarity that it was quite possible that she would live out her life mated to a divided spirit. 

Fatigue overcame her and she dozed, still half listening for the hovercraft. 

When it came, she did not hear it. She woke from a deep sleep to hear Jill greeting Spock in front of the bungalow. Assuming that he would spend a few moments with the child as he often did on returning, she continued to doze, her physical lassitude tempting her toward another nap. 

She did not hear his step, and was aware of his presence in the room only when he came close enough to be linked with her telepathically. Still half asleep, she felt herself embraced by the depth and tenderness of his love as he stood for a moment beside the cot, looking down at her. She responded mentally without tension, joyfully and completely, her conscious caution muted by the soft shreds of sleep: _You are my reality._

He went to his knees beside the cot and laid one arm gently across her body and his head against her breast. She woke completely then, but not to caution and not to surprise. The confident love that bound them at that moment was no surprise to her, for she had known it was there all along. 

His face was turned away from hers, and when she turned her head to look at him, she could see only the top of his head. Slowly she laid one arm around his shoulders and began to stroke his hair very gently with the other hand. There was no hurry now. He had asked for her patience, and there could not be much longer to wait. 

At that moment, Jill screamed. And in the next, Spock was gone. 

Sarah scrambled to her feet and followed him, her mind filled with horrible images of what might be happening to her child. But although she was not yet physically clumsy, her reflexes were slower than normal. By the time she reached the porch, Jill was already there--whole and unhurt, but beside herself with fear. Sarah could not imagine what could have frightened her so--this child who had spent her life with physically deformed animals and approached a giant insect with no fear at all. 

"They've got female ears!" She flung herself into Sarah's arms, shivering, her world turned upside-down. "M-mother, there are some male people out there and they've got female ears!" 

Still holding her child, Sarah looked up. Spock was standing still, almost rigid. Beyond him, coming slowly across the clearing, were three human males in Starfleet red, and one in Starfleet blue. 

_No!_ She screamed silently. _Leave us alone! He was almost--_

But she knew it was already too late. 

They had been rescued at last, and would never quite be alone again. 

  
The hour that Jim Kirk had spent alone in his quarters had not been a pleasant one. He had spent the first five minutes telling himself that he should not have left the bridge five minutes before his watch was over. When it was over, he began to wonder why he could not feel grief, and commenced to pace the floor. But no matter what arguments he advanced to himself, he could not banish the perception of two realities occupying the same space at the same time: the certainty that Spock was dead, and the certainty that he was not. 

When McCoy was admitted, Kirk was sure he was in for one hell of a lecture. But when McCoy's first words confirmed what he already knew in his heart to be real, he could not be surprised. He could only smile. 

"Where is he? Is he all right?" 

"He's in Sickbay with Sarah, Jim. You'll see him in a few minutes." McCoy put his hands on his friend's shoulders and gently forced him to sit down. "Now listen--" 

"It was--Sarah?" Sarah? But DeVecchio had said-- 

"Yes. They're both fine. They were outside the city when the bomb--" 

"But Tony said there was a child with her." 

"I'm getting to that, dammit!" McCoy paused, opened his mouth to go on, and then seemed to run out of words. 

They stared at each other for a moment, and then Kirk asked, deadly calm: "Is it mine?" McCoy nodded. "You knew about this when she left the _Enterprise_?" Another nod. "All right, Doctor. I'm listening. Start talking." 

"She was going to get in touch with you when the grant was over. Three--four months? Something like that. Then, afterwards--I thought she was dead. What good would it have done you?" McCoy smiled. "You have a beautiful, healthy daughter, Captain. Congratulations." But in spite of the genuine affection in his voice, his smile was ironic. "Jim, listen--" 

But Kirk put up his hand abruptly. "Give me a minute, Bones." He rose and moved slowly down the room, trying to think coherently. "Did Sarah tell you what she expected of me--then?" 

"She said, 'I expect him to care.'" 

Kirk turned on his heel. "Care? Is that all?" 

"That was all that was important to her," McCoy answered gently. "And she wasn't worried about it either." 

"But this child is--a reality." 

McCoy was silent for a moment. And when he finally spoke, his words seemed so completely out of context that Kirk wondered if either one of them was thinking coherently. 

"So's her sister." 

  
As he followed his captain toward Sickbay, McCoy began to wonder about himself. He was supposed to be the psychiatrist around here--the voice of sweet reason in the midst of what was possibly the most emotionally charged situation he had ever faced. He knew that it was normal for both Spock and Sarah to be disoriented; they reminded him of children who had been suddenly awakened and dragged into the bright lights of a rather noisy adult party. Psychologically, they were both still blinking, and the child was so over-stimulated and overexcited that he was genuinely concerned about her. If ever there was a time to be calm and professionally objective, now was the time. But he was not calm, and professional objectivity was beyond him. The thought uppermost in his mind was _If he goes Vulcan on Jim now, I'm gonna wring his neck._

But the fates smiled on him that day, and he was never called upon to carry out his threat. 

Because he was behind the captain as they entered Sickbay, McCoy could only imagine Jim's expression as he hesitated for an instant when he saw Spock--bearded, gaunt, ravaged by a severe illness within the past few months. But Spock did not hesitate. Spock moved, and Spock smiled, and McCoy forgot to think about whether he looked human or not because at that moment, there was no duality in him. No words were spoken that McCoy could hear. They simply held each other hard, the dark head close to the light one. 

It was Jill who broke the silence. 

"Who--who is...?" McCoy turned toward Sarah and the child with some reluctance, briefly brushing his hand across his eyes. But the moment he saw Jill's face, his concern for her obliterated every other thought. It had been a long time since he had seen a thoroughly terrified human child, and it was not a pleasant sight. "Wh--what is he--M-mother, don't cry! Why are you--what is he _doing_?" 

She stood with her back pressed against Sarah, gazing imploringly up into her mother's face as though for deliverance. Sarah held the child's hands in hers; her head was bent, her unbound hair falling forward so that McCoy could not see her face. She spoke softly, almost a murmur; McCoy could not quite hear what she said, but caught the words "captain" and "friend." The latter obviously meant nothing to Jill, but to McCoy's astonishment, she seemed to recognize "captain," and looked again toward Spock and her father. 

Jim had already begun to move toward Sarah and the child, his hand still on Spock's arm, which he now released after a brief, final pressure. As he came closer, Jill shrank back against her mother. Jim slowed but did not stop, extending his left hand to take Sarah's right, which she had gently withdrawn from Jill's grasp. Their gaze held for a moment as their hands clasped; again McCoy could not see Jim's expression, but he saw Sarah's smile for the first time since the transporter room four years before. 

Was she unhappy? he wondered. Or could there be something the matter with her that the scanner had not revealed? She looked...could she be in shock? But the scanner would have.... 

Jim released Sarah's hand, and still without any sudden moves, backed off a little and hunkered down so that he could look directly at Jill at her own eye level. 

"Dr. McCoy tells me your name is Jill." His tone was almost conversational. Almost. "Is that your name?" 

The child stared at him, considerably less terrified than she had been only a moment before, and whispered, "Yes, sir." 

McCoy's mouth dropped open slightly. Where the hell...? 

Still at Jill's eye level, Jim turned slowly to grin up at Spock, who had moved silently to stand near him. "Welcome aboard, Mr. Spock," he said softly, and Spock inclined his head, hands clasped behind his back. 

"Thank you, Captain." 

Again, McCoy was immediately aware that the word "captain" was of some significance to Jill. 

"Spock says my father is the captain of a starship," she informed the back of Jim's head. "Are you my father?" 

He turned back quickly, disconcerted, now looking up at Sarah, who shook her head with obvious regret. "It's just a word to her." 

McCoy could now see Jim in profile, and he saw a slight frown. Then, to Jill, with the same gentleness as before: "What does your mother say?" 

Quite suddenly, Jill was in familiar territory. She had relaxed perceptibly, and she no longer whispered. "Mother says if I have to go to the bathroom I should ask one of the awful sirs where the bathroom is." Hopefully, and with some urgency: "I have to go now. Are you a awful sir, or are you just the captain?" 

McCoy was sure that he would remember for the rest of his life the tableau created by the simultaneous reactions of the three other adults in the room: Sarah whispering, "Oh my God. Jill--", and then beginning to laugh softly, her hand covering her mouth; Jim, again grinning up at Spock: "You teach her that too?"; and Spock, hands still clasped behind his back, mutely shaking his bent head while trying to get his face in order. 

  
"What did you mean--'It's just a word to her'?" 

Sarah, her examination completed, sat on the edge of one of the diagnostic beds, her hand again in Jim's. McCoy was examining Jill across the room, and Spock had joined them, obviously realizing that Sarah and Jim needed to talk alone. 

"It can't be any other way, Jim. She doesn't know what a family is, or a brother, or a sister. Or a father. We've both told her about you since she could understand words, but she can't relate to something she's never seen." 

After a moment, he said slowly, "Just 'Mother' and 'Spock.'" 

"How could it be otherwise?" 

Again he did not answer immediately. Then, looking directly at her: "Is that the way you want it?" 

"No!" She was shocked by the sudden hardness in his voice. "How can you think that?" 

He shook his head, almost as though he were trying to clear it. "It doesn't matter." He sighed deeply and took her other hand. "Will you go back to Vulcan to live?" 

"Of course." But she could not feel the reality of it. None of this was real. 

She knew that he was watching her face, and seeing perhaps more than she wanted him to see. 

"Is that where you want to be?" His voice was very gentle now. She knew what he was really asking, and was touched that he should care about what she wanted when Spock's happiness had to mean more to him that hers did. _You've had time to become friends_ , McCoy had said once, long ago. But at this moment it did not seem all that long ago. 

"You don't have to ask me that." The tears came to her eyes even though she tried to hold them back. "You know him better than anyone does." 

  
The briefing would be the last before shore leave. It was mandatory; their ETA at Spacedock was projected for the middle of the ship's night, and by morning, most of the crew would be gone. 

Kirk made sure that he arrived first. He wanted to watch them as they came in--department heads and first-watch bridge personnel--to get a feel for their reaction to Spock's return. 

He was sure that all of them knew that Spock was on board. The official announcement to staff would come during the briefing, followed by another piped to the entire crew. But he knew that the news had already sped through the grapevine; there was nothing he had to tell them that they had not been buzzing about for the better part of an hour. And as soon as McCoy was through examining Spock, both of them would join the briefing session. 

For four years, Scotty had sat around the corner of the table from the captain and immediately to his left during staff briefings. Now, watching the chief engineer enter the room with two of his key assistants, Kirk felt misgivings for the first time. After all, the man was human. He had been second in command for a long time. McCoy might be right: _Scotty understands_ may have been a bit facile.... 

Without appearing to divert his attention from his conversation with his assistants, Scott moved directly toward his usual chair. But he did not take it. Still apparently deep in conversation, he sat in the next seat as though that had always been his place. The conversation ended, and only then did the acting first officer look at his captain. Their gazes held, and then Scott smiled. 

"Thank you, Scotty," Kirk said softly. 

"Aye, Captain." Scott stretched his arms in front of him, locked his fingers together, and cracked his knuckles, grinning broadly. _Now_ , that grin said. _After four years o' nonsense, now I can get some work done._

Kirk nodded silently and then glanced around, noting that everyone except Spock and McCoy was present and accounted for. But there was a great deal of muted conversation still going on. Give them another moment, he decided. The endless, debilitating hell that they had all been through was over now, as was his own private hell. Let them relax for another moment.... 

The door swished, and Spock came slowly into the room, with McCoy slightly behind him. 

In the sudden, echoing silence, Kirk resisted the impulse to close his eyes. McCoy had assured him that preliminary medical scans while still on the planet had indicated that both Spock and Sarah were basically in good health, and that Jill was thriving. Kirk was sure that neither of the adults realized how emaciated they looked; both had dropped at least fifteen pounds, a loss neither of them could well afford. But it was their manner that disturbed Kirk more than anything else. In their own way, each of them was as emotionally shocked as Jill was. He had tried, and failed, to imagine what it must be like to come back into a universe populated by real people after four years of total isolation. Now, watching Spock's thin, bearded figure enter the briefing room still wearing the tunic and trousers that hung on both him and Sarah as though they were stick figures, he wondered if this had been a mistake. Perhaps Spock should have had more time to adjust before having to face this kind of an emotional situation. Even at this distance his pupils appeared dilated, and his face--what could be seen of it--was almost without color. 

The silence lasted a moment longer. Then Chief Engineer Scott slowly pushed back his chair and rose to his feet, hands now clasped behind him. He was not quite at attention, but his back was perfectly straight, and his dark eyes, now slightly narrowed, roved deliberately around the table, resting for an instant on each face except the captain's. This was his last act as first officer, and it was more than clear what he expected in response. 

Almost as one, the entire group--including the captain--rose and stood in silent tribute to the returning first officer. 

Kirk had seen him look like this in the past, but it had been so long that he had almost forgotten that look. Spock was not controlling. Kirk was sure of it. Rather, there was an intensity, an almost preternatural stillness about him that was like a palpable aura as he moved slowly around the table toward his seat and stood for a moment behind it. Like the rest of them, he stood tall, hands clasped behind him. 

"As you were, gentlemen," he said softly, almost gently. His eyes sought Uhura's. "Lieutenant." He inclined his head very slightly. Then he turned his gaze to his left and inclined his head again. "Mr. Scott." His voice was almost a whisper, and it was clear that he was controlling now. 

"Aye, sir," Scott answered serenely, and sat down. The rest of them did the same, and the briefing began. 

  
When it was over and the rest had gone their ways, the captain and the first officer remained--Kirk now leaning back with his arms relaxed at his sides, and Spock with his elbow on the arm of his chair and his mouth resting lightly against his loosely curled fingers. 

Finally Kirk said gently, "You better get rid of that beard, mister. It's non-regulation." 

"Your assumption may be unwarranted." Spock's voice was calm, but there was a great sadness in it, and in his eyes. "Four years is a long time, Jim. Nothing stays the same. My place may be elsewhere now." 

They looked at one another in silence for a moment, and then Kirk said very softly, "What the hell is the matter with you?" Very softly, so that he would not shout it. As he spoke, he leaned forward, his forearms on the table. 

He had wondered when Spock would reach the limit of his ability to permit his feelings to show, and for a moment he thought that limit had been reached. Spock seemed to pull away, but then he looked up, directly at his friend. And for the first time, Jim realized the depth of Spock's confusion. 

Once, when he was a small child, he had been playing in a field when a butterfly landed on his shoulder. Fascinated at the rare privilege of seeing the marvelous intricacies of this strange and beautiful creature at such close range, he had held his breath, knowing that at that moment, nothing was more important to him than that the butterfly not be frightened away by anything that he did. 

He almost held his breath now. 

"Where do you really want to be?" he asked quietly. " On Vulcan?" 

"No." 

"On Earth?" 

"No." Spock too leaned forward, and bowed his head. 

"Then where? 

"It will not happen--now." 

There was a long silence during which Jim told himself that what he was thinking did not make sense. And yet-- 

Tears from the one.... 

"You feel as though ha--a part of you is still back on Tara," he said slowly. "You want to go back and find it again." 

"I never found it." 

...And from the other, this? 

"Spock--if it's part of what you are, you couldn't leave it behind." Jim raised his hand and tapped the dark head gently with his finger. "It's here." 

Spock slowly resumed his former position, elbow on the arm of the chair, hand resting lightly against his mouth. His thoughts were obviously far away, and he was still deeply troubled. But he was not controlling, and he had not withdrawn. 

"You don't have to make a final decision now, you know,"Jim said quietly, watching him. "But I want you to stand the last half of this watch with DeVecchio's relief. In uniform. That's an order." 

"Understood, sir." Spock rose abruptly, and as he moved behind the captain on his way to the door, Jim silently cursed himself for speaking too soon. Turning his head slightly, he waited for Spock to return to his line of vision, intending to try to repair whatever damage he had done. 

With his head turned, he saw as well as felt Spock's hand on his shoulder--a firm yet gentle pressure, the fingers tightening for a moment and then releasing as his friend moved past him and then on out the door. It was not until Spock was gone that he remembered that there was something else he had been going to say. 

  
The passenger cabin assigned to Dr. Sarah Halsted and her daughter had obviously been designed to accommodate a married couple, with added sleeping room for a child provided by ship's stores. Sarah appreciated the thoughtfulness of the person who had made the arrangements, but firmly refused to share that person's implicit assumption. If she had no expectations, she could not be disappointed. 

Or so she told herself. But when Spock knocked on the door before entering, and then appeared clean-shaven, she faced a moment of truth that she had not foreseen. 

She had been diverting her overexcited child with stories of Vulcan before Jill settled down for sleep--speaking in a calm, lulling tone and concentrating on the stateliness and serenity so deeply inherent in the city where they would live. Jill's eyes were drooping by the time Spock came to the door, and even his presence evoked only a sleepy smile of welcome from her. But Sarah was appalled by the fact that he would knock at the door like a stranger, and when she saw him without his beard though not yet in uniform, she again experienced the despairing sense of loss that she had felt when the landing party shattered their moment of hope. She was accustomed to thinking of herself as the wife of a Vulcan and the mother of his child. But now, for the first time, she began to realize the implications of being the wife of a Starfleet officer--an officer who frequently risked death but very infrequently had home leave. 

She watched Spock wish Jill a tender goodnight, laying his hand on her hair as he too spoke briefly to her of their new home. The child was asleep almost instantly, and the two of them moved to the other side of the room where a dressing table was set in a mirrored alcove. Two straight chairs faced one another nearby, but since Spock apparently intended to remain standing (like a goddamn visitor, she thought with rising despair), she turned one of the chairs toward the mirror and began to brush her hair. 

"Where will you be staying?" she asked, trying to sound casual. 

"In my quarters." Spock paused, and she noticed that he looked neither happy nor very well. "I have been ordered to report for duty--temporarily." 

"Ordered?" she repeated, watching him in the mirror. 

He simply nodded, eyes downcast. Reaching for the link between them, she realized that he was deeply troubled, although she could not yet discern the reason. 

"Do you feel well enough to be on duty?" 

"I am not unwell." 

"Then what--?" 

Conflict. Something was tearing him apart. Still groping for a reason, she asked the first question that came to her mind. 

"Isn't logical to take up your life at the point where it was interrupted?" 

"I don't know." It was barely a whisper. 

She dropped the brush and went to him quickly, knowing that he was in more distress than she had sensed until this moment. Taking his face between her hands, she at last understood through the link that his conflict was on two levels, which did not surprise her. But looking from within, he perceived them as one. 

Slowly she dropped her hands to his shoulders. "You're right. Your being in Starfleet isn't the best thing for us right now. But Jim is no threat to me unless I make him that." In spite of the gravity of the situation, she could not repress a smile. "Of all the stupid moves I could make right now, that one would have to take the prize. A person's capacity for loving other people isn't a room with walls and a locked door, Spock! It grows as the person grows. You and I saw that happen on Tara. This isn't about 'who.' It's about 'where.' Where do you _want_ to be?" 

He drew her against him, his hand against her cheek. "My Sarah, you're the second one to ask me that in as many hours." 

She nodded, closing her eyes against sudden tears. "Seems like you're a minority of one. Why not make it unanimous?" 

"If I remain in Starfleet--" 

"If?" she echoed softly. "Starfleet has been your life since long before you knew either of us." 

"We would be apart most of the time," he went on as though she had not spoken. "It is unlikely that I would have home leave even once a year." 

She raised her head to look at him, again unable to resist a faint smile, although this time it was a very tired one. "'Aren't you going to say probabilities?'" 

Seeing her smile reflected in his weary eyes, she thought he would answer _If you wish_. The words were in his mind, but he did not say them. Instead, he gently stroked her hair away from her forehead as he had that morning. And when he spoke, it was in Vulcan. 

"I accept your gift of self." 

She drew away a little, her left arm still partially around his waist as his remained around hers. Raising her other hand, she extended the first two fingers, her gaze holding his steadily, now far from tears. 

"The obligation is mine," she answered in his language. And as his fingers touched hers, she knew that even with a thousand light years between them, he would always be hers alone unless she drove him away with demands he believed he could not fulfill. And she told herself that the act of human love was not essential for her as long as they belonged to one another--and at that moment, really believed it. 

  
Alone, she found that she was ready for sleep. But before consciousness slipped away on this, her first night away from Tara in four years, she felt a deep regret that she would never again see the stark, shining Tower against the pale green sky, never find out how Sutek was cured, or what had killed him. 

She fell asleep without ever suspecting how wrong she was--on all three counts. 


	4. The Alternate Christopher Jones

  


# The Alternate Christopher Jones

_Captain's personal log. After nearly four years exploring the galactic rim, I almost feel as though we've been on Klingon border patrol for twice as long as we actually were. As we head back toward the planets most of us call home, our last leaves there seem very long ago. Contrary to my previously held opinion, I begin to wonder whether the idea of having families of Starfleet officers accompany them on lengthy exploratory missions is such a bad one after all. This is no doubt the wave of the future, although it seems unlikely that any of us now in Starfleet will be around to see it happen. But as we move farther outward into unexplored space, the problem becomes more acute each year. With such vast distances between crew members and their spouses and so little time together between missions, problems that could be solved in the day-to-day process of living together remain unsolved, and relationships cannot grow and mature. This last is particularly true for crew members with young children...I should think._

 _Captain's log, Stardate 6518.5: Enroute to Starbase 6, the_ Enterprise _has been ordered to stop briefly at Vulcan to pick up Ambassador Sarek and his aides. Sarek will relieve Vice-Ambassador Sillen as the Vulcan delegate to the Continuing Trade Conference, and the_ Enterprise _will then return Sillen to Vulcan. The round trip from Vulcan to the conference and back will take approximately one standard day, during which First Officer Spock will take leave on his home planet. Since Starfleet regulations require that the captain be on board when Federation passengers are being transported between worlds, I will be unable to take leave at this time._

Since the routine stop at Starbase seven a few days before, McCoy had been unusually solemn and life aboard the _Enterprise_ unusually dull. And so, as he and Spock and McCoy had dinner together hours before their ETA on Vulcan, Kirk decided to try to kill two birds with one stone--give McCoy a chance to talk about whatever was troubling him, and maybe break the monotony at the same time.

"What's up, Bones?" he asked as the meal showed signs of proceeding in complete silence. "You haven't been very talkative since Seven. Anything wrong?"

"No." McCoy sighed. "Not really. But I spent the evening with a friend--Ted Littleton, the ship's medic on the _Orion's Belt_. He told me a story that--well, it depressed me." McCoy glanced from Kirk to Spock and back again. "Anybody for a space-age ghost story?"

Spock's eyebrows rose, and Kirk looked up quickly. "What do you mean, ghost story?"

"You know the archetypal story of the lonely ghost who wanders the world searching for his loved ones? Except here you substitute 'the universe' for 'the world,' and this isn't a ghost. He's--you really want to hear it?"

"We're all ears," Kirk said patiently, and then grinned at Spock, who had cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Speak for yourself, Captain." Spock's suggestion came in much the same tone and with the same deft timing as he had once told John Christopher that he didn't believe in little green men either.

"Of course, Mr. Spock."

Even McCoy smiled a little as he asked irritably, "You two want to hear this story, or do you want to--"

"I want to hear the story," Kirk assured him, and Spock added with exaggerated politeness,

"Proceed, Doctor. The ghost story is a fascinating aspect of human culture."

McCoy stared at him balefully for a moment, as though deciding if his leg were being pulled. But once he began to tell his story, both of his listeners became most attentive.

The _Belt_ , a freighter, had come upon a small fusion-driven space yacht in a remote area of the galaxy after the freighter had strayed off course. A private craft, the yacht was having engine trouble, and the _Belt_ had offered the lone pilot help, only to discover a very peculiar thing.

"He thought he was in the vicinity of Earth," McCoy said slowly, and although there was nothing ominous about that statement, Kirk felt his neck prickle.

"And they were--?"

"They'd strayed into Tholian space and were in a hurry to get out. So they took the _Peggy Jones_ in tow without stopping to try to figure out why it popped up out of nowhere with no warning." McCoy was looking at Spock now. "Are you ahead of me, Mr. Spock?"

"Proceed, Doctor," Spock repeated. But it was obvious that he was not just being polite.

The pilot of the _Peggy Jones_ was a physician whose hobby was yacht racing. His profession had drawn him into Ted Littleton's company while the crew of the _Belt_ repaired his engines. "At first he seemed severely depressed. Ted's sure that he was suicidal, and that he'd never intended to return to Earth when he left it. But he snapped out of it pretty quick. Ted describes him as a basically stable individual who'd recently lost his wife and only child in a skiing accident while they were on a family vacation in Aspen. The lift fell, of all gruesome things. Nothing like that has happened on Earth for a century or more, but they were in the wrong place at the right time. He told Ted all about it, but he seemed to have gotten his second wind emotionally, pulled himself together, did a lot of reading."

"On a freighter?" Kirk asked incredulously. "Not much to read--" Then he paused. "The _Belt_ is Fred Conover's ship." Conover had been a Starfleet officer before he was permanently disabled by an exotic virus--disabled enough to be discharged from Starfleet, but still able to function as the captain of a freighter. It was well known that Conover had the most complete set of Federation tapes outside of Starfleet.

"Mmm. Ted said their passenger suddenly developed an almost obsessive interest in interphase phenomena, the whole theory of parallel universes. He questioned Conover about the subject extensively, almost made a nuisance of himself. But Fred was so glad to see him taking an interest in anything that he spent quite a bit of time with him, right up until they hit Spacedock."

"What did the passenger do then?"

"He disappeared," McCoy answered quietly. "Just got in his ship one day and took off, without even saying goodbye. Somebody finally remembered that he had thought he was near Earth when they picked him up, and they decided to check him out." McCoy hesitated, frowning slightly. "Does the name 'Christopher Jones' mean anything to either of you?"

Both of his listeners shook their heads, and Kirk asked, "Was that his name?"

"Mm-hmm. Damndest thing." McCoy scratched his head. "I know I've heard the name before, and I'd swear it was here on the _Enterprise_. But I just can't-- Well, anyway, it turns out that Christopher Jones and his wife and their two sons are very much alive. He's on the OB/GYN staff at All Worlds Hospital in San Francisco."

Kirk was beginning to feel chilly in spite of the fact that the mess hall was comfortably warm. Spock stared intently at the doctor, but did not speak.

Ted Littleton, McCoy went on, had remembered that the passenger's deceased child had been adopted. "Daughter of a cousin, he said. Ted says he's a decent man, probably wouldn't attempt to take his alter's wife away by force, especially if she's happy. And he wouldn't have any interest in the two boys, of course. But the little girl, Peggy--the Christopher Jones in _this_ universe didn't adopt her, but it's a safe guess that her counterpart does exist here." McCoy grinned a little. "Your cue, Spock."

"The probability is 96.4 percent." Spock was almost frowning. "How recently did these events take place?"

"Several months ago. And the man hasn't surfaced anywhere, seems to have gone to ground, or to space. The Christopher Jones with the two sons has been under constant surveillance by Federation security, but the other one hasn't approached him or his family as far as anyone knows. He's just disappeared." McCoy sighed. "Well, that's it. What's your best guess as to where he is?"

"Trying to find his daughter," Kirk said softly. "To see if she's happy."

He was immediately aware that, a few years ago, he would not have understood so quickly. He also knew, without looking, that Spock was not looking at him at the moment. But McCoy was.

"And if she isn't?" Bones asked gently.

"The alternate would need assistance," Spock said into the silence, "to return to his own universe. He could not do it alone."

"Ted says he built his ship himself, from scratch," McCoy answered. "He knows how these things work."

"A fusion drive--"

"He's had several months to modify that drive. It wouldn't take much antimatter to power a small ship like that, and he had all of Christopher Jones's connections. Who would doubt who he was if he tried to buy materials here? And he spent several weeks studying interphase phenomena on the _Belt_. If he finds his Peggy, he just might make a run for it with her."

  
"He won't talk to me about Jill," Kirk said grimly. "Not lately, anyway. I have no idea why."

"Have you asked him?" McCoy leaned back in his chair, thinking that the captain's quarters felt smaller all the time. Four years exploring the galactic rim tended to make you feel just a bit claustrophobic. Starfleet was going to have to clean up its act....

"Not yet." Kirk sipped his drink, frowning. "At first, right after we dropped them off on Vulcan, he was fine. He told me a lot about her, and I was grateful to him. But lately...."

"Jim, it's none of my business, but--" Kirk shook his head, smiling a little. "Okay, then. How often do you hear from Jill? Not from Sarah. From Jill."

There was a short silence, and then Kirk said quietly, "I don't. And I don't understand why. I've sent her things--presents. A book, once."

"You tape to her and she doesn't answer you?"

"Well--no. Not exactly. I tape to Sarah. I sent the things for Jill to her too. I thought--" He sighed. "I don't know what I thought. I guess I wanted to make sure that Sarah didn't feel threatened in any way." He looked at McCoy with genuine appeal, for the moment uncharacteristically vulnerable and unsure: "Do you tape to kids that small?"

 _Yes, sir, Captain, sir_ , McCoy thought ironically. _Indeed you do._ But he had decided to go easy on this one, even though the whole thing was proving more complicated that he'd thought. "You've never communicated directly with Jill?"

"Sarah's tapes are extensive, detailed, and--well, friendly." Now he sounded almost defensive. "I have no reason to believe...." His voice died away.

"Believe what?"

Kirk shifted uneasily and took another swallow of his drink. "I have no reason to believe that she isn't...facilitating matters. Bones--" He sighed. "I'm no good at this. I'm used to psyching people out, trying to figure out why they do the things they do. Or don't do. But this--" He took another swallow.

"But you're not happy with the way things are going."

"No, I'm not. But--" As though to prove something: "I showed you the last picture Sarah sent, didn't I?"

"You showed me." McCoy sighed. In his mind he saw the fax of the tall, tow-headed eight-year-old in the tomato-colored jumpsuit that was the uniform of the School for Offworld Children on every Federation planet. It was a typical school picture. Jill stared at the camera, full-faced, stone-faced, grim. McCoy had no idea what she really looked like. "Some picture."

"Vulcans don't have portrait studios," Kirk reminded him wryly. "Sarah's doing the best she can."

There was a short silence, and then McCoy said softly, "I don't think you really believe that. And I don't think I do either." He raised his hand quickly. "Just let me finish, Jim. I think--I think Sarah thinks of Jill as her child, not hers and yours. And I think I know why."

Kirk turned to look directly at him, no longer appealing or vulnerable. "You mean hers and Spock's," he said tightly, and McCoy thought, _Uh-oh. Better kill that one before it does any damage._

"No, that's not what I mean. Spock wasn't in the picture when she told me how she was planning to handle her life. She had all her answers, had it all thought out, and she'd only known she was pregnant for three or four days. She...it was as though she was in it all alone, had to make all the decisions herself. Now just wait, will you? Let me finish. She said she wanted you to care, and she knew you would. She never doubted that. But--I didn't get the impression that she ever actually saw a place for you in Jill's life. She knew you wouldn't want to stay around--"

"What she really wants is for me to stay away ?"

"No, dammit! For God's sake, don't second-guess her on the basis of...past history. I don't think any of this is intentional. But she's doing it, Jim, and you're letting her. If you want a place in your daughter's life, you're going to have to make your move, and soon. If you don't, you're going to end up with another David Marcus on your conscience." _Now, duck_ , he thought grimly. But Kirk's response surprised him.

"You're late, Doctor. I've been expecting that for about five minutes." And he didn't even sound particularly snappish. Staring into space, swirling the liquor in his cup. Almost as though he had something else on his mind?

"There's something else that's bothering you about this." McCoy narrowed his eyes, going back over the entire conversation in his mind. "Something about Spock?"

Kirk nodded, still gazing inward at something only he could see.

"Think maybe you should talk it out?"

"No. Thanks, Bones. But--no."

"I didn't mean with me."

A sigh. "That's easier said than done."

"Who said 'easy'?" McCoy asked gently. "Try 'human,'"

"Don't I wish."

McCoy stared. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Bones, Sarah is Jill's mother." A long pause. "I've tried to talk to him about this. Twice. The first time, he opted out--just drifted away like he does. The second time, a couple evenings ago, he did the same thing, but much more abruptly." Another long pause. "Did it ever occur to you that he just might not want me coming around?"

"You can't be serious."

Kirk swung around to face him, his eyes intense. "Try 'Vulcan.'"

After a moment, McCoy asked incredulously, "Are you _afraid_ of him?"

"No. But you and I found out the hard way that Vulcans and humans don't talk the same language in more ways than one. I don't have a clue about what the Vulcan in him might misinterpret." Intense and urgent, and McCoy realized that this was the crux of it: "I will not risk doing anything-- _anything_ \--that might make that happen. Daughter or no daughter, the price could be more than I'm willing to pay."

"You mean your friendship." Kirk simply continued to stare at him. "Jim, you have got to talk to him about this."

"I know."

"Why have you waited this long? My God, it's been four years!"

"Because it took me this long to figure out why I'm hanging back." Kirk grinned faintly, painfully. "That human enough for you, Doctor?"

  
 _You have got to talk to him..._.

He had considered going to Spock's quarters. But some instinct deep within him said _No. Say out of his space until you know what's bothering him._ Because there was something bothering Spock. The closer they got to Vulcan, the more evident that became.

And so he brought it up while they were playing chess, and at first he thought that might have been one of the worst mistakes of his life.

"You're the only one who can help me understand how Sarah wants me to handle this," he said quietly, too quietly for any of the others in the rec room to hear. But at the mention of Sarah's name, there had been a subtle withdrawal. No one but he or McCoy would have perceived it, but it was there.

"I suggest that you ask Sarah," Spock said expressionlessly, "since it is she from whom you wish to obtain information." End of conversation. At least as far as Spock was concerned.

"Well, I suppose that's the logical way to go." Jim smiled, but Spock was not looking at him, and did not see the smile. "Spock--"

"Captain--" There it was. _Stay out of my space._ "Perhaps this is not the time to be playing chess. If you will excuse--"

" _Talk_ to me!" It was barely more than a whisper, but Spock looked up, and there was fear in his eyes. Throwing caution to the winds, Jim plunged on. "Is this really about Jill, or is it about Sarah?"

 _I don't want to talk about Sarah._ The message was as clear as though Spock had said it aloud.

"What do you think I'm going to do?" _Mistake_ , Jim thought. _This is one hell of a mistake._ But the same instinct that had made him choose not to go to Spock's quarters now seemed to be shouting at him: _Now. Don't let this go on for one more second. Now is the time._ "Try to get her to Challenge?"

He had seen sheer fury in Spock's eyes on other occasions, but never so quickly controlled. It goes away, Sarah had said once. They don't repress it. It just goes away.

"Did you find that amusing?" Quietly, almost expressionlessly.

"No," Jim answered just as quietly. "But one of us had to say it, didn't I?"

Only a moment before, he had watched Spock control, almost seen it happen. Now he watched him forget to control, and it was as though clouds sped away from the sun, blown by a fresh wind.

"Jim, that's absurd!" Incredibly, he was almost smiling.

"Why?"

"You are my friend." Innocence, yes, and yet so much more. Somehow, they could bring out the best in one another as well as the worst. "I do not believe that you will ever need me to function as your conscience. What I...foresee is that you or Sarah may someday attempt to persuade me to function as your arbiter." Gently: "Do you understand?"

Of course. What else? "You don't want to get stuck in the middle."

"I will not play that role, Jim. I--" Now he seemed to be forcing himself to say the word that he had avoided before in using "foresee." "I fear that your friendship with Sarah or with me might not survive it." Again, but with more urgency this time: "Do you understand?"

"Better than you know." Jim knew that his grin was spreading, but he let it. There was no danger here now. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

A frown. More familiar now. Extremely familiar. "It was most interesting. Until recently, I knew that I was reluctant to become involved, but I did not know why." Genuinely puzzled. In short, what Bones would have called pure Spock. "Most illogical."

Jim leaned back in his chair, feeling as though he were at peace with the universe for the first time in days. "Not interesting, my friend. Fascinating. Absolutely fascinating."

  
"I don't want to 'speak to her privately,' T'Loreth." Sarah stood with her back to her superior and friend, gazing out over the grounds of the Vulcan Science Academy medical complex from the window of T'Loreth's office in Hybrid Obstetrics. It was a heavy, depressing day, and the sky glowed dull red even through the clouds. No breeze stirred, even though the temperature had fallen below 30 degrees centigrade. Sarah felt cold right through to her bones. If the Na-Shoma didn't come soon...."Please don't insist."

"I shall not insist," T'Loreth answered expressionlessly. "But I am not human, Sarah, and you are. Kathleen Greenwood is in a highly disturbed state. If her condition worsens, it could affect her pregnancy adversely."

"Yes, I know. And one of the reasons I'm on staff here is that I supposedly understand the psychological afflictions of pregnant human women." Sarah turned from the window and walked slowly back to her chief's desk, which was piled with unlooked-at tapes and paperwork. T'Loreth had a great deal of responsibility, and Sarah felt acutely her own obligation to take over some of the load. "Kathleen is what we call a spoiled brat. Do you comprehend the referent?"

"Indeed."

"She speaks of Earth as home. She's intelligent, a former Starfleet officer. Yet she seems to have made no attempt to adjust to her life here on Vulcan. I can't understand why Simon would have married her."

"Simon was always unstable," T'Loreth commented impassively. Sarah smothered a smile, knowing that T'Loreth meant the comment as a simple statement of truth, with no offense intended toward Kathleen. "It would have been well if his father had permitted him to remain here on Vulcan with his mother's family."

"Humans tend to be possessive about their children." T'Loreth did not reply, and there was a moment's silence between them. "All right," Sarah said finally. "I guess I owe it to Simon to try to get Kathleen to shape up. After all, I've known him since he was a little boy. It still seems odd to think of him as an officer on the _Lexington_ instead of just one of the hybrid children from your pilot study."

  
Kathleen had been hospitalized because of dehydration due to her inability to eat well. When Sarah came to the door of her room, the young woman was sitting on the window seat, half leaning out, as though she were gasping for air. The delivery rooms in H.O. were air-conditioned in deference to the human women who were patients there. But Kathleen was not yet near term, and so she was a patient in the hospital's medical wing.

"Hello." She greeted Sarah listlessly, her light brown hair clinging in moist wisps around her small, pale face. "I don't know how you do it, Doctor. You always look so fresh."

"I've been on staff here for four years," Sarah answered quietly. "It's surprising what you can adapt to if you try." _My God, Sarah,_ she thought. _How do you stand yourself? So righteous...._

She took the girl's pulse while Kathleen turned again to stare out at the lowering red sky. "Four years in this godforsaken desert?" There seemed to be a note of hysteria in her voice.

Sarah released her wrist and joined her on the window seat. "How about telling me what the trouble is." Besides the heat, and Simon being gone, and being pregnant on a strange world. Sarah found herself not quite as critical as she had been a few moments before. "There is something bothering you, isn't there?"

"Yes." It was scarcely more than a whisper. "Simon was home on leave a tenday ago. Did you know that?"

"No." Simon had stopped coming to see T'Loreth when he was home on leave. He had always seemed to Sarah to be a tragic caricature of what Spock might have become had he been brought up on Earth instead of on Vulcan. He had never been taught Vulcan disciplines until he was twelve, and by that time it was largely too late. He had stayed on Vulcan with his grandparents for only a year, and had never been bonded. Yet his emotions were not human emotions, and he had no knowledge to help him deal with them. Someone, probably his father, had tried to make a human out of him, and failed. As result, Simon, unlike Spock, had no idea who he was or even who he wanted to be. "Was he home for long?"

"Much too long," Kathleen answered dully, "and not nearly long enough." She looked over at Sarah and then away again, embarrassed. "Do Vulcans have some kind of taboo against having sex with a pregnant woman?"

"Taboo?"

"Simon has this obsession about being Vulcan all of a sudden. I mean, the last few months. I thought maybe that was why...." Her voice trailed off.

"Obsession?" Sarah echoed. Simon? Vulcan?

"Before we were married," Kathleen explained patiently, "he was almost relaxed with me. I was Navigation and he was Helm on B shift. Not a whole lot happens on B shift, and we really got to know each other. I thought we were going to take it slow and easy, just be friends for a while. Then all of a sudden he wanted to get married. I mean, not just have sex. He wanted to get married, and right away. And he hasn't been the same since. It's--well, it's almost as though he found out he wasn't human after all." Her voice broke on the last words.

Horrified, Sarah contemplated the emerging truth of Kathleen's situation. "Did you ever ask Simon why he changed so suddenly?"

"I'm not sure he knows what happened. And he won't talk about it." Kathleen bowed her head over her hands, miserable and defeated. "I think he's ashamed." She looked up, defensive now. "I didn't mind...that much. We could have worked it out. It just seemed like at first he wanted it all the time, and then...nothing."

"What about the bonding link?" Sarah asked softly, knowing the answer, dreading the answer.

"The what?" Confused. Faintly curious. "Oh--you mean that betrothal thing that they do?"

"Yes," Sarah said faintly.

"Oh, we didn't do that. It all sort of came up all of a sudden. The ship was on patrol along the Neutral Zone, and Simon--"

"Have you ever had any telepathic contact with Simon?"

"No. I'm not a telepath."

Sarah clenched her fists briefly, and then forced herself to relax them. It wasn't fair to blame his Vulcan grandparents for what they couldn't bear to discuss with him, or his human father for what he quite possibly didn't know. It wasn't fair. But was this suffering fair? The only good thing about it was that Simon was barely twenty-one; the pon farr he had experienced along the Neutral Zone had probably been non-lethal and relatively non-violent. And yet....

 _I'm not a telepath_.

Sarah shivered, got up and closed the door.

  
"You mean Simon can't do it unless he's--chemically unbalanced?"

"I don't know. A full Vulcan can't. But Simon and...and others are the first couple of generations of Vulcan/human hybrids. We can't possibly generalize. The evidence just isn't in yet."

Hopefully: "You mean that some of them can?"

Sarah tried to meet Kathleen's clear, questioning gaze directly. "So I understand," she answered quietly.

Kathleen nodded and turned away. She was silent for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was muffled. "I didn't mind. I love him." She met Sarah's gaze again. There were tears in her eyes now, but she was smiling a little. "They're all kind of...special. Do you know what I mean?"

Sarah thought fleetingly of professional detachment, but it was only a thought. She put her arms around Kathleen and hugged her. _Oh, Sarah, what a smartass you are. So sure you know a spoiled brat when you see one...._ "Do you want to hear my theory about what's happened to Simon?"

"Oh, do I ever. Any theory at all."

Sarah pulled away gently. "Vulcans are ashamed of being out of control during pon farr, but I don't think that applies to Simon. I don't think he even knew what was happening to him. He just knew he couldn't control it, and I think he's afraid it will happen again if he makes love to you now. If you can explain it to him, it might help." Kathleen nodded enthusiastically. "But--it might not, Kathleen. At least, not right away. You've got to keep reminding yourself that he's not all human, and not expect him to--to be that. Try to be patient if--if things don't work out right away. Give him time." _How wise I sound._

  
"I just gave Kathleen Greenwood a snow job."

T'Loreth sat at her desk, the picture of calm in the midst of chaos. "Snow," she repeated abstractedly. "Job?"

Sarah collapsed into a chair. "It means that I sounded off like I know all the answers when I'm not even sure I'm asking the right questions." She recapped her initial conversation with Kathleen, appalled anew. "'The what?' she says. 'Oh, that betrothal thing that they do. I'm not a telepath.' My God."

T'Loreth was silent for a few moments. Then: "Is it permitted to inquire what counsel you gave her?"

"It's permitted to inquire. But the counsel I gave her was based on personal experience."

T'Loreth lowered her eyes. "I regret that I violated your privacy."

"You are my good friend," Sarah said gently. "Friends are permitted to ask questions, but friends are also permitted not to answer. There's nothing to regret, and you didn't violate anything." T'Loreth was now studying her thoughtfully, and she discovered that she did not want to be studied thoughtfully just then. "Now I regret that I have to go and collect my daughters. The Lord of the Manor is going offworld tomorrow, and I want to reassure him that his only grandchild hasn't been corrupted by her first contact with human children other than her sister." T'Loreth stared, impassive. "I'm sorry. Sarek's a good man. I mean a good....Well, they don't even mean the same thing, do they."

"It is difficult, Sarah, for the father of your husband to accept your ways--as difficult as it is for you to accept his."

"I know. And the funny thing is, I'm fond of him. With Spock gone, not even knowing his own child, Sarek and I could be locked in a power struggle to end all power struggles. But he just won't let that happen. I slip once in a while, but he never does." Sarah gazed speculatively at T'Loreth, but she was not really seeing her. "Ironic that it was Spock's Vulcan parent that I thought I'd have trouble convincing."

"Convincing?"

Sarah stared. "I did say that, didn't I? I don't know--Amanda doesn't trust me somehow. If I could stand to be telepathically receptive to anyone but Spock and Jill, I might find out why. But I don't know why. I just know."

"That is not logical."

Sarah smiled. "The mother of my husband is many things, T'Loreth, but logical is not one of them." The smile lingered. "They've both been so good to Jill, he in his way and she in hers."

"It would be illogical--"

"Oh, you don't know how most human in-laws would behave in circumstances like this. I really had misgivings about going to live there instead of with Chris and Mary." T'Loreth raised an eyebrow. "My cousin and his wife. They were still doing residencies at Salk when Jill and I came home." No response. "Funny how parts of our lives just don't touch other parts. Chris Jones is my cousin. We grew up in the same house. He and his wife are my dearest friends on Earth, but I don't think even Spock has ever heard their names."

  
The offworld settlement was on the outskirts of ShiKahr, separated from the city proper by a gigantic aqueduct. Sarah's aircar traveled high at her bidding, and she was able to look down at the broad expanse of desert surrounding the entire metropolis. To her immediate left, Seleya and its nearer sisters rose red in the red desert air. And still there was no breeze, and still the air seemed chilly to her even though she knew it was not, at least by human standards. The climatic inversion preceding the Na-Shoma had prevailed longer than usual this year, and the water in the air was almost unbearable even to an offworlder such as Sarah Halsted. The Na-Shoma or "spring wind" would come eventually as it always did. But in the meantime, the air seemed almost solid with moisture.

Looking at gaunt Seleya, the highest mountain in the near range, she thought of the Black Tower on Tara, and of the deep green lake around it, clear and still, the same color as her younger daughter's eyes.... 

...Watching her mother as Sarah come toward her across the playground of the preschool for offworld children. T'Ara was the only Vulcan child in her group, and Sarah had arranged for her to come to the Federation school for two or three days each tenday. Today was the first of what Sarah hoped would be many. For it seemed to her only logical--and Sarek had agreed, if reluctantly--that a child three-quarters human might profitably spend at least one quarter of her time with her mother's people. She had the impression that Sarek did not believe that the arrangement would last, and had agreed to it with that in mind. But now that T'Ara had gained control, her mother saw no reason why she would not be able to more than hold her own with human children her own age.

The child watched her mother, totally expressionless. Her eyes were indeed the color of Tower's Ring and the sky above it--appearing slanted at a distance but wide and almost round at close range. Her skin pigmentation was almost human, her hair as black and shining as the Tower itself, but stubbornly flipping up at the ends. Her tiny pointed ears were her only really Vulcan feature other than her eyebrows. Those rose slightly at Sarah's approach, and the mother could not help but think that a human child would have run to her, bubbling--if she were not reduced to tears at the first sight of her mother after a day of new experiences.

She sat cross-legged on the ground, near where a group of children about her age and size were playing on a variety of playground equipment. She was alone.

"I'm early." Sarah dropped to the ground next to the child. "I wanted to see what the children are doing here at your new school."

"But you observed the children before I began to attend," T'Ara reminded her, still expressionless.

"Yes, of course I did. I came early to see if you're happy here, little one."

"It is interesting."

"You don't seem very interested." Sarah looked away abruptly, biting her lip. _Is there nothing of me in this child? We converse like strangers._

"Doctor Halsted?" A well-formed, athletic-looking young human female in shorts and a sleeveless top was coming across the playground. She and Sarah greeted one another, and then she said brightly, "Tara is doing just fine. For the first day, of course." She smiled at T'Ara, and Sarah had to admit that the smile was genuine. "She's a little bit shy, but most of the children are at first."

"Shy?" Sarah echoed faintly. T'Ara? Shy?

"Well--" The girl looked uncomfortable. "She hasn't participated at all. She's just watched all day." Pleading: "Tara, wouldn't you like to just _try_ some of the activities before you go home?"

T'Ara stared at her for a moment, taking stock, and then answered politely, "No."

The girl was obviously taken aback, but when Sarah gave the child a direct look, she seemed more hopeful until T'Ara amended obediently, "No-thank-you."

The teacher gave Sarah a helpless look that was also slightly reproving, and Sarah thought, _Why did you imply she had a choice when you weren't really giving her one?_

"T'Ara," she explained quietly, "'Wouldn't you like to' is a human way of saying 'I'd like you to.'"

The child's eyebrows rose. "But that is not logical."

"No. No, it isn't. But that's what Ms Allen meant."

"Very well." T'Ara rose without uncrossing her feet, simply stood up without the slightest struggle for balance, uncrossed her feet and walked gracefully away toward the playground equipment. She was tall for her age as Jill had been and still was. But she weighed ten pounds less than Jill had at the same age, and the newly purchased tomato-colored jumpsuit, cycled for her height, hung uneasily on her spare little body.

"We never force the children to participate," Ms Allen was explaining to Sarah. "But the sooner they begin, the sooner we can judge their abilities. The level of coordination varies a great deal among...the races...." She stared.

T'Ara was walking along a board about ten centimeters wide, raised about fifteen centimeters off the ground. She walked it quickly and proficiently, as though it were a path a meter wide, without using her arms for balance. From the end of the board, she walked to where two plastic rings were suspended from a bar by lengths of cord so that they were slightly above her shoulders. She grasped the rings and turned several somersaults between them, her feet following her head in a controlled arc. Dropping to the ground so lightly that she hardly made a sound, she approached an area where several children of different races were testing their skills with a mechanically turned jumprope. Although the rope was turning slightly faster than their hands would have turned it, T'Ara did not hesitate, did not stand weaving back and forth to catch the rhythm of the turning rope as a human child would have. She stepped in, jumped effortlessly ten times, stepped out, and returned to where her mother and her teacher were standing. Looking up at Ms Allen with impassive politeness, she asked in her clear little voice: "Is there anything else you would like me to do before I go, Ms Allen?"

""No," Sarah answered before the speechless teacher could open her mouth. "That was just fine. Ms Allen, I--ah--think it would be best if T'Ara went to school with Vulcan children full time after all. Her tuition has been paid here for ten days, so I think that part of it should be all taken care of. Thank you so much for your time. I do appreciate it." And she held out her hand.

Ms Allen took it in hers and shook it limply. "Dr. Halsted," she said earnestly, "this child does not know how to have fun. I think it would be to her benefit--"

"Yes, I know. But I've made my decision. Thank you again."

She should have known better, she thought as she and T'Ara walked toward the area where Jill and her classmates were playing softball. Just as Sarek had known better. For Vulcan children as well as adults, physical exercise and recreation were separate entities that never met. At four, T'Ara's idea of recreation was to sit for an hour trying to figure out the permutations of a Soma--not by trial and error, but by studying the object intently before ever making a move toward it. She loved it, had already put her Soma together more than two dozen different ways, and always on the first try--

"Mother, what is fun?"

They walked on in silence while Sarah pondered. As they neared Jill and her companions and slowed their pace, she said quietly, "Watch."

In silence, they watched.

It was immediately clear to Sarah that it was the last of the ninth, that Jill's team was up to bat, and that the score was tied. She no longer wondered how it was that she could ascertain this kind of information simply by studying her elder daughter; the rapport was not at a high level, but there was no question that it existed, just as it always had. In addition, the bases were loaded, a fact that was obvious once she was able to determine which screaming, sweaty, grimy set of children represented which team. Just to the right of home plate, Jill and a manchild about her own age were almost nose to nose.

"Bunt?" the boy was yelling. "Are you crazy? You have to be the craziest girl on the team! Norma'll hit right into the pitcher's--"

"Shut up, Charlie," Jill said ominously. "He'll bobble it. He always does."

"You shut up! You're just a girl!" My God, Sarah thought, where did he...?

"Who's the manager?" Jill demanded, steely eyed.

"You are, but--"

"You wanna be manager?"

"Sure! You just--"

"Glad to. We'll take a vote. _After_ the game, Charlie."

Charlie opened his mouth and closed it again. Jill turned away, obviously enjoying herself tremendously. "Bunt," she said to the girl at the plate.

The girl bunted, and the winning run scored a scant five seconds later while the opposing pitcher was still bobbling the ball out on the mound. A few seconds after that, Jill and Charlie were pounding each other on the back, grinning, shouting things that could not be heard at any distance because of their semi-hysterical team swirling around them.

"That," Sarah said softly, "is fun."

"Indeed?" T'Ara looked up at her, eyebrows rising. "Interesting."

And Sarah looked down, her eyes misting, wondering what T'Ara would do if her mother hugged her on the spot. _Will she ever let me love her?_ she had once asked Amanda. And she would never forget the reply: _My dear, that's a question better left unasked._

"Why are you sad?"

Sarah felt a small hand take hold of hers, and the mist cleared. T'Ara still looked up at her, and the green eyes were still clear and shining. But in their depths was something quite un-Vulcan that Sarah had never seen there before.

After a moment, she said, "I'm not. Now." She squeezed the little hand once and then let go, careful not to hold it long enough for T'Ara to want to draw it away herself. "Come on. Let's go get Jill."

They traveled home in the aircar, the two girls sitting opposite Sarah, Jill next to the window because T'Ara had commandeered one of her sister's books. Her grandmother had books, but they were mostly for grownups. This one was for children, and she was too curious about its contents to want to look out as they rode.

Watching the two of them, Sarah was certain that they were not as unaware of one another as they seemed to be. T'Ara was totally absorbed in her reading, and Jill stared silently out--her face, in repose, taking on a look of deep seriousness that could almost be called sadness. But once something amusing caught her eye, and she smiled spontaneously. Sarah could not help but wonder if it were only coincidence that T'Ara smiled faintly at the same moment. Again Jill became lost in her own thoughts, this time beginning to look downright unhappy. Sarah was about to ask her if there was anything wrong when she apparently noticed something else that interested her, at least for the moment. Making no sound, she pointed. T'Ara glanced up from her book, looked in the direction her sister had pointed, and then went back to her reading.

Sarah found it not at all strange that both of her daughters should be telepathic, since she was to a high degree. And T'Ara was part Vulcan. But the fact that they seemed to take this rapport for granted and think nothing of it began to worry her. There were times when she wondered if they spent too much time alone together. But Jill's friends all lived in the offworld settlement, and she seldom saw them outside of school hours. T'Ara, now that she had gained control, was good company in spite of the differences in their ages....Again Jill was gazing sadly out of the aircar window.

"Jill," Sarah asked softly, "is there something wrong?"

The child's eyes turned toward her, and for a moment Sarah thought that she was going to answer in the affirmative. The words were almost on her lips, and then the programmed aircar began to descend.

"I was just thinking" she said, and seemed to close up.

 _Thinking about what?_ But Sarah had been on Vulcan too long to ever ask that question of anyone.

"Maybe you'll feel like telling me about it later," she said gently, and to her relief, Jill smiled wistfully.

"I might."

The one-story house had been built in two wings, joined at the center to form an open V. The pale red stone had a burnished surface, reflecting the blazing sun back at itself and keeping the interior relatively cool. A Vulcan garden filled the interior of the V with exotic blooms that spilled rainbow-like down a low hill toward the greenhouse where Amanda's flower beds clustered moistly together under the protecting roof. Just beyond the greenhouse, a low wall edged a steeper precipice that angled sharply downward toward the city for a little over a kilometer. Looking down, Sarah could see the path she and Sarek and Amanda took when they walked to their daily work; she had taken the aircar today only because she intended to visit the school on her way home.

As they approached the small central courtyard, Sarah noticed that the gate stood open and unlatched. Strange. It was unlikely that either Sarek or Amanda was at home yet. Wondering, she entered the courtyard. At first it seemed that no one was there. I-Chaya lay asleep at the far end, and the heavy, still air brooded over all. Even the hardy Vulcan desert flora that had been planted there seemed to hang their heads in quiet despair.

"There is a man here," T'Ara's clear little voice informed her, and Sarah turned to see a figure sitting on a bench near the wing where Sarek and Amanda lived. He rose to his feet as she moved toward him, almost unable to believe her eyes.

"Chris!" Delighted, her worry over Jill forgotten, she ran to the man who came toward her with an unfamiliar hesitancy and embraced him as she would a brother. "This is wonderful! When did you get to Vulcan? Is Mary with you? Did you bring the boys? Why didn't you tell me...." Her voice died away. It was the same Chris--still skinny, still with his dark hair thick and unkempt and curly. But his eyes....

"Mary's dead, Sarah," he said quietly, and again with the barest hesitation, he hid his face in her shoulder. 

She could not speak, but simply held him, barely aware that both the children were staring at them. "What happened?" she asked brokenly.

He told her about the accident at Aspen a few months before, his voice now dull and without expression. "One minute they were up there, waving, and the next...." He shrugged. He was not even near to tears anymore, Sarah realized. But--"

"They?"

They had pulled apart slightly, and she was looking directly at him as she asked the question. For just an instant, something like terror seemed to flicker in his eyes.

"There--there was a little girl with her."

Horrified: "Alone?"

"No. Her--mother was with her." Fear and confusion. She knew without the slightest doubt that he was not lying, could not be lying. Not about something like this. And yet she knew that he was lying about something. "There were three of them in the lift--Mary and this other woman and her child. That's what I meant by 'they.'"

"Robbie and Stevie weren't with you in Aspen?"

He went completely blank at that. Then, slowly: "No. They weren't with us. They're...fine." And he smiled--a vague, almost uncomprehending smile.

She held him silently again, telling herself that he was still in shock, that that was the only possible explanation for such bizarre behavior. Then she turned to the fascinated children. "Jill, T'Ara --this is my cousin, Chris Jones. We grew up together on Earth."

He did not seem to see T'Ara at all, but moved slowly to Jill and took both her hands in his. "Hello, Jill." Sarah, always aware of intense feeling, wondered that he should care this much about a child he had not seen in four years. But she was also very conscious of Jill's reaction; it was perhaps only the second time in her life that she had had the affectionate, undivided attention of an adult, human male.

"Hello." For the first time since they left school, she smiled. And then, inexplicably, "Do you have a little girl?"

"No." It was only the one word. It seemed as though he literally could not say any more. Watching Jill's face from over his shoulder, Sarah saw the child now looking at him as though she were afraid he was going to burst into tears.

But there was confusion in Jill's eyes. "You don't?"

"Jill--no more questions, okay?" Trying to ease the tension, Sarah invited him into the wing she shared with her daughters. He seemed almost unaware of his surroundings, barely interested in the decor of the spacious rooms, and oddly enough, barely interested in T'Ara, who couldn't have cared less and disappeared into her room, now impassive. But when Sarah suggested that Jill go and change, he said quickly, "No--let her stay. I want to--to get to know your children. It's been a long time, and Jill is so grown up compared to when I saw her last." He smiled then--a hollow travesty of his former smile, but an attempt nevertheless.

"She'll be back in a few minutes," Sarah insisted firmly. "She's been playing softball, and it's bathtime. Hair too, Jilly."

"I used to play softball," Chris informed Jill, undeterred. Then he turned to Sarah, again exhibiting the peculiar hesitancy that she had noticed at first. "You used to play too, didn't you?

"Of course I did!" Could the shock of losing his wife have been so profound that his memory was affected? "Don't you remember the time we beat the Red Angels in the finals?"

He stared at her for a moment, and then smiled his first real smile. It was, in fact, a grin. "We beat 'em?"

"You remember. Bobbie...Bobbie Whatshisname?"

"Morton," he said, fascinated. "Did--did the ball clear the fence?"

"Don't you remember?"

"Sarah," he said, still grinning, "do you realize that if just a few circumstances had been different--not so much wind, maybe--that ball might have fallen inside and been caught on the fly?"

"But it wasn't."

"So you tell me." He turned again to the child. "Jill, it was the last of the eleventh, and we were tied--"

"Chris, I'm sorry, but she just has to go and get cleaned up now."

"Well, that's a mother for you, huh?" He smiled at Jill almost conspiratorially. "You go get changed, then. I'll be here for a while." And Jill scampered off, obviously eager for the rest of the story.

Chris turned back to Sarah, and his smile disappeared. "It seems odd," he said, frowning a little, "to see you with a husband and another child."

"Odd?"

"If your husband had been killed on Tara, your life would have been very different. Jill might have been mine--and Mary's. We might have adopted her."

She could only stare at him. His voice had been matter-of-fact, as though he were suggesting alternative plans for dinner. "Killed?" she repeated, her voice tight.

"I'm sorry." His contrition was genuine. "That was a stupid thing to say." Again, the vague, aimless smile.

"You still have Robbie and Stevie," she said, and then wished she hadn't.

He looked at her blankly for a moment. "Yes, of course." His voice sounded numb. "They look like Mary. Both of them." But it was as though he were talking about someone else's children.

He rose and began to pace, and I-Chaya opened one eye and stared suspiciously at him.

"Is that a wild animal?" Chris paused, looking across the courtyard at the sehlat.

"Not really. Just big. He didn't threaten you, did he?"

"No. But I kept thinking it was going to. Big is right. Is it a bear or what?"

I-Chaya snorted and closed his eyes in disgust.

"No. They were wild at one time, but now they're sort of semi-domesticated. He didn't attack you because he knew you were harmless."

"How?"

She studied him for a moment, knowing him well. "I don't think I'll tell you," she said wryly. "You wouldn't believe me. Let's just say he knew you were benevolent toward the family or he wouldn't have let you into the courtyard."

"Does Jill have much to do with it?"

"Oh, yes. They're very fond of each other."

"Sarah--how is Jill?"

"She's fine," answered firmly. "Why?"

"She doesn't look very happy somehow. Not like--" Another inexplicable change of expression. "It must be tough on a kid living on another world, not seeing her own people."

"She does. At school." Impulsively, because she had always confided in him, she went on with something that she had never told anyone else. "But I know what you mean. Lately I've been thinking about taking both of them to Earth for a while--in about three years. After T'Ara is bonded."

He stopped pacing and stood facing her, hands in his pockets. Wrong turn. Chris had never had much sympathy with Vulcan customs. "That whole business is like something out of the Stone Age. Are you really going to go along with it?"

"It's necessary."

"Well--" But he was not interested in T'Ara. "Why do you have to wait that long? Couldn't you go now and come back when she has to be--uh--bonded?"

"I have to stay here on Vulcan," she answered carefully, "for another year or so." It crossed her mind to tell him why; after all, he was a medical man, and her nearest living relative. Then, realizing what she had been about to do, she felt a wave of horror. Was the need to talk to another adult human besides Amanda that great?

"That long?"

"Yes. I have personal reasons."

"More important than Jill's happiness?" There was an odd, intense look about him as he asked the question.

"It's not a question of either-or."

"And if it were?"

"If it were," she said reluctantly, "then--yes, this would be more important."

"Sarah," he said coldly, "why did you keep her?" Then, before she could express her incredulity: "If I had a little girl like that, I'd risk my life to make her happy. I wouldn't think twice about it." For the first time, there were tears in his eyes.

 _It's not_ my _life I'd be risking._ The words were there, but she could not say them. Instead she said as calmly as she could: "I kept Jill because I wanted her very much. Next to my husband, she and T'Ara are the most important people in my life. I would risk my life gladly for hers, but at this moment I don't know what would make her happy. But I try very hard to find out. Always. Will you believe that?"

After a moment he said quietly, "Of course I do." Again he moved across the courtyard, but when I-Chaya opened one eye, he turned and paced back again. "I have no right to be here like this," he said finally, standing before her as though he were waiting for her to pass judgment on him for a crime she had no knowledge of. "I don't belong here." His voice had grown thin, and he seemed to be holding back tears again. "I have to go home soon."

"Not before you have dinner with us," she said gently. "Home is a long way."

"Yes." He stared at her. "Yes, it is." Then, pulling himself together once more: "Your in-laws don't mind your asking a guest to dinner?"

"This is my home, Chris."

"Well, it's--nice that you feel that way." He sat down on the bench next to her, but he was restless and uneasy. "I don't know why you put up with a set-up like this when you don't have to."

"That's what you said four years ago."

He glanced at her sharply, and then went on. "Good for me. Vulcan is underpopulated. There's no reason for people to have to live on top of each other the way we do at home. And aren't they pretty much sticklers for privacy?"

"Yes. My living with Spock's parents is a cultural anomaly, but so is the absentee father. This is the only way we could handle it."

"Handle what?"

"T'Ara is a Vulcan, and a Vulcan child must live with at least one adult Vulcan or lose touch with--with the racial identity. I can't explain it in words."

Chris had ceased his restless movements and was looking at her with interest. "You mean you don't understand why, but you're living here because your husband insists on it."

"No, that's not what I mean," she answered calmly, sensing his confusion because her manner was not defensive. "No one insists on anything. But I can't explain it in words because it wasn't conveyed to me in words."

"You mean telepathy?"

"Something like that."

"Boy, that is weird. Look, T'Ara's not a Vulcan child. She's only one-quarter--"

"Is she?" Sarah asked softly. "You saw her."

"Now you're talking about cultural conditioning."

"Am I? You should have seen her when she was younger. You would have thought she was retarded or autistic. _I_ would have thought so if I hadn't seen other Vulcan children in my work. Sarek was the only one who could handle her at all, and he seemed--well, permissive by Earth standards. He kept saying that if she was controlled from the outside, she would never gain control from within." Chris snorted softly. "I almost went out of my mind with her until about six months ago. She'd had no discipline, couldn't feed herself, wasn't toilet-trained--you name it. Then, in about seventy-two hours, it was all done. It was--as though a tiger cub suddenly turned into a Persian kitten, sitting on a silk pillow."

"And how do you account for this change?"

"She gained control. The mechanism was maturing--"

"Oh, Sarah, that's bull! I'm sorry, but the kid's repressed, that's all. I know she's your baby and you believe in all this stuff, but I'm a physician too, remember? T'Ara is not a normal four-year-old. I think you better start--"

Sarah put up her hand for silence--firmly and without agitation.

"All right," he said evenly. "So she's controlled. So move out. Jill--"

"It's not that simple. I couldn't move out of here unless Spock agreed that T'Ara should be brought up as a human. And even if he did --." Heartsick, she thought of Simon Greenwood. "Even if he did, I wouldn't. But he never would. He knows better."

"But you said you're planning to take them to Earth. How does he feel about that?"

"I--" For the first time, she hesitated. "I haven't discussed it with him. He's due home on leave tomorrow. We'll talk about it then."

"Do." Chris was looking at her intently once more. "It's important to Jill. Don't let it slide any longer."

  
Under the influence of Amanda's gracious hospitality, Chris seemed to relax, becoming almost the smiling, easygoing brother and friend of Sarah's past life. Watching them together, Sarah admired Amanda for her tact and charm; somehow this lonely, grief-stricken visitor was a little less lonely now.

Before they went in for the meal, Amanda explained the Vulcan custom of silence during meals while her husband, although remaining silent himself, allowed one eyebrow to rise noticeably.

"Important matters shouldn't be discussed while eating. It's not good for the digestion. And unimportant matters shouldn't be discussed at all." It was a blatant oversimplification of a rather complex idea, but Amanda's eyes were dancing. Sarek said nothing, and Chris was thoroughly charmed.

When they came to the table, he held Amanda's chair for her. And then, with an apologetic glance at Sarah, he went to Jill and held her chair, receiving a dazzling smile in return. Jill was obviously captivated, and it occurred to Sarah that it might be long past time for child to come to know her father. If she were to admit the truth to herself, she realized, she had not given the matter much thought lately. _Humans are possessive about their children._ Her own words to T'Loreth that afternoon came back to her now, and she sighed.

Jill was fascinated by Chris's adam's apple. Sarah knew that the child was watching it bob as he ate, and she could see the slight twitching of Jill's mouth from time to time. Remembering herself and Chris at eight, she knew that this was just the kind of thing that a child that age would find hilarious. Well, if Jill should giggle, it wouldn't do any harm. She had giggled at the table more than once over the years, and Sarek had never reprimanded her. Sarah had never ceased to marvel at the fact that he did not expect Jill to behave like a Vulcan child, even though she was living in a Vulcan home. Now that T'Ara had gained control, his expectations of her were as high as they had once been of Spock. But Jill was human, and Sarek did not forget that even for a moment.

But in the end, it was T'Ara who giggled.

The sound was so unexpected and so thoroughly unfamiliar that at first Sarah did not know where it had come from. She looked up, startled, and saw that Sarek was looking straight at the child--simply looking at her, without even a hint of reproof. T'Ara, now totally impassive, returned his intent gaze for a moment. Then, still expressionless, she rose and left the room without a word, and without so much as a look at her mother. She was not upset, Sarah knew, not even controlling. The thing had happened, and the consequences must be lived with. It was the Vulcan way.

She was aware that Chris was looking at her. That look said, as clearly as words: _This is normal?_

"That's not fair!" Without warning, Jill's voice burst the silence as though she had slashed it. "You know it wasn't her fault!" And Sarah, with a faint thrill of horror, realized that the child was speaking to Sarek.

She felt herself tensing for the reprimand that she knew must come. But it did not come. Sarek's dark eyes now rested on Jill, but with tenderness rather than anger. "Your sister is a Vulcan," he said with infinite gentleness. "She must remain so. Do you understand?"

Tears came to Jill's eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered, and then she too rose and left the room.

Thoroughly confused, Sarah turned to Sarek, knowing that he would not speak, hoping that she could somehow read the reason for it all. He gazed back at her for a moment, almost sadly. Then he dropped his gazed and continued with the meal.

"Excuse me." Sarah rose hastily and followed Jill into the courtyard. As she had expected, the child was being comforted by I-Chaya, her cheek against the great animal's side.

"Jill." Sarah sat down beside her on the ground and laid her hand gently on the shining hair, still damp from her shampoo. "What happened?"

"I made her laugh." It was only a whisper. "It was my fault, but she was punished." The injustice of it seemed to break her heart.

"It wasn't punishment. You know that."

A deep sigh. "I know. But...."

"How did you make her laugh?"

Jill turned then, and gave her mother the oddest look that Sarah had ever received from anyone. It was part pity and part...reproof? "I can't do it with you anymore," Jill said tightly. "You don't hear anymore. You just try to listen in."

"I don't know what you're--"

"You don't understand! You don't understand anything!" Again close to tears, Jill scrambled up and made for the door into the house, avoiding Chris although he tried to catch her as she ducked around him.

"Jill!" he cried. "Honey, don't--" But she was gone, and he turned on Sarah, almost white with fury. "Sarah, that--that demigod in there is breaking her spirit, and T'Ara's, and yours too. I saw you look at him before you dared even go and comfort your own child. What's happened to you? You let him banish Jill--"

"No one was banished," Sarah answered quietly, trying to keep her voice under control. "You just don't understand."

"That," he said coldly, "is what your daughter was saying to you just now. But you 'don't hear anymore.' I'd like to know what's so important that you can't find the time to listen to her." Stiffly, now trying to control his anger: "Please make my apologies to our hostess. I think I've had enough Vulcan hospitality to last me a lifetime. It's bad for the digestion." And without another word, he left the courtyard and began to walk rapidly down the hill.

Numb, Sarah remained sitting on the ground near I-Chaya's head. Finally he thrust a warm nose against the inside of her elbow.

"Thanks," she said softly. "It's nice to know somebody likes me. Oh, what am I doing wrong?" No comment. "No. What am I doing right? Anything at all?" Still no comment. "I almost wish Spock weren't coming home tomorrow. I don't think I'm fit company for anyone." Soft, comforting moan. "Yes, it is sad. Oh, I-Chaya, I miss him so." She pressed her fist against her mouth, and was still sitting in the same position when Sarek came to the door.

She knew she should get up, but somehow it didn't seem worth the effort.

"You did not interfere," he said softly, and his eyebrows made it a question.

"If I had found you unjust, Sarek, I would have," she said wearily. And then, unable to resist: "They are _my_ children." He gazed back at her silently, totally without challenge, and she sighed. "I'm--I regret that I said that. I know you won't rise to that kind of bait." An almost-smile, and Sarah too smiled a little in spite of herself. "Please tell me what happened in there."

For an instant he seemed to hesitate. Then, expressionless: "You are not competent to handle the situation, Sarah."

"But I have a right to--" Realizing that he had not finished speaking, she inclined her head. "Please continue."

There was a flash of something in his eyes. Approval? "If Spock permits it," he said quietly, "you shall know of it as soon as he arrives."

"But I thought--you won't see him, will you?"

"It will be arranged."

"Is it that serious?"

"Indeed."

"I see." There was no use questioning him further, she knew.

  
The courtyard fountain whispered in the relative cool of the evening as T'Ara and her grandfather left through the gate to walk together down the hill. Jill perched on the rim of the fountain, her hand trailing in the water. Sarah sat on a bench with Amanda's guitar on her lap, fingering the strings idly. Amanda worked nearby, replacing a violin string.

"Any chance I can have something besides the Telemann in the foreseeable future?" Sarah asked, knowing the answer.

"You can't learn the guitar without learning baroque," Amanda answered mildly. "What do you want me to give you next?"

"Rodrigo. The fantasy he wrote for Segovia."

" _Fantasia para un Gentilhombre._ My dear, that's about as baroque as you can get. They're all Gaspar Sanz themes, three hundred years old when Rodrigo reworked them. The second movement is a fugue."

"The third movement isn't." Slowly, but only a little slower than the appropriate tempo, she picked out both melody and harmony for an eight-measure or sixteen-measure or thirty-two-measure theme; she had no idea which it was, since she had never seen the notes. Then the repetition, and then the next theme. Jill watched from the edge of the fountain, and Amanda watched from her chair, both of them smiling a little.

"You're doing that by ear?" Amanda asked softly.

"This. Everything." Sarah gave her a twisted smile. "All by ear." She went on playing--a simple, lyrical melody with a faint trace of sadness. "She follows him around, but not like a puppy. Like a puff of smoke."

Amanda and Jill both glanced toward the gate through which Sarek and T'Ara had passed from their sight only a few moments ago.

"Her father was the same way," Amanda said, her voice soft with memory.

"I wish they could know each other," Sarah said, trying to keep her voice steady. "She and her father."

Abruptly, Jill got up and walked over to I-Chaya, who was lying out of earshot at the other end of the courtyard. Dropping down next to the sehlat, she laid her cheek against his side, turning her face away from Amanda and her mother.

After a moment, Amanda asked softly, "How long are you going to let that go on before you do something about it?"

"Let what go on?"

"Why doesn't her father tape to her?"

"I don't know." Sarah turned to look directly at Amanda, trying to see her clearly in the gathering darkness. "I wish I did."

"Then find out. Her normal feelings of possessiveness are getting dammed up, diverted into odd channels." After a short silence: "I'm sorry. I swore to myself that I wouldn't interfere."

"Don't be cryptic, Amanda," Sarah said wearily. "Does this have something to do with what happened at dinner?"

"I've already said too much." Amanda looked over at her, and Sarah sensed genuine affection in her gaze. "Oh, to think that I'd ever end up sounding like a mother-in-law." She shook her head in mock horror, and they both laughed spontaneously.

"I don't resent advice," Sarah said gently. "I thought you knew that."

"Once a Vulcan becomes a parent," Amanda reminded her, "his parents can't give advice unless he permits it. To him or to his spouse."

"You and I aren't Vulcans."

Amanda looked up from her work, directly at her. "Double standard, Sarah?"

For no reason that she could understand, Sarah thought at that moment of her plans to take her daughters to Earth. Feeling obscurely uncomfortable, she looked away and returned from their tangent. "That's what Sarek meant by 'if Spock permits it,' I suppose."

Amanda nodded. "I hope you realize how difficult this is for Sarek. He's acting--what we would call _in loco parentis_ for Spock. There's a Vulcan name for it, but I can't say it properly. Ordinarily, such a person is permitted to confer with the parent. In fact, he's obliged to if a serious situation arises. But because Spock is Sarek's adult son, he can't do it without permission from Spock."

"But why?"

"It would violate Spock's privacy. He's an adult now."

 _Like a dance,_ Sarah thought. _Like a stately dance._ "I think I understand. It's a double bind."

Amanda smiled a little but did not answer. After a moment, she looked toward Jill. "I met Jim Kirk once. I liked him." Sarah nodded. "He has to come back to Vulcan to pick Spock up after he takes Sarek to the conference, doesn't he?" Sarah nodded again, and Amanda sighed. "There I go again."

"But you're right."

"I know."

Sarah laughed again in spite of herself. "I should have asked him to come and see her. I realize that now. But--I've never seen the notes for this one either."

"You were doing fine on the Rodrigo." They smiled at each other. "Do you suppose he doesn't want to come here for some reason?"

"I have no idea. But I'll try to find out."

"Spock could make him come and see her," Amanda said, her voice a queer mixture of confidence and hopelessness.

"He wouldn't, though."

"I know." Amanda sighed. "But it was a nice thought while it lasted."

  
At the request of its distinguished passenger-to-be, the shuttlecraft _Columbus_ landed at the end of an isolated pier that was only partially completed. The uncovered base and its partial coping stretched out under the tangerine sky, out from the central geodesic dome of the shuttleport, which was also a domestic spaceport. Sarah had paced to the end of the pier, away from Sarek and his aides who were standing motionless and virtually without conversation at the approximate midpoint of the pier. She had the impression that the aides did not particularly like waiting in the open air, heavy as it was with moisture. But Sarek had specified where he wanted the shuttle to land, and Sarah knew why: he wanted privacy to speak with his son.

Expecting Spock to be aboard the shuttle, she waited for him to appear with her heart pounding (she told herself irreverently) as though she were a teenager with a crush. But he did not appear, and for a moment she wondered if there had been some mistake in communications; perhaps Spock had beamed directly to the house in ShiKahr.

Sarek's aides moved on down the pier, past Sarah and into the _Columbus_. Just as she began to walk back toward Sarek, Spock materialized at an intermediate point between them, his back to Sarah. Partially because of the link between them and partially because of the rigid tension in his body, she realized immediately what was in his mind: Sarek had come to meet him alone to inform him of some tragedy.

"Spock," she called out, and he whirled to face her as she walked to him and touched her fingers to his. "I'm fine," she added softly as his gaze seemed to devour her. "We all are. Welcome home."

His gaze lingered on hers, and she knew that if they had been alone he would have touched her face before he lowered his hand. But he turned from her with obvious reluctance and gave his father the traditional greeting.

"Live long and prosper, Sarek." The quiet words seemed to settle into the surrounding air as though they were comfortable there. Now that Spock had become a parent, he would no longer address his father as anything but "Sarek." Their relationship now was one of adult to adult, and both of them seemed at ease with it.

But the next instant, Sarah was thrown into complete confusion. Sarek had been watching Spock as he approached, and with something Sarah privately thought very similar to human pride in his eyes. But when his son drew near, Sarek turned away with a slow, deliberate, almost stylized motion--simply turned his back and stood gazing in the opposite direction. It was the gesture of a human bent on ignoring another human, and for a moment Sarah wondered if she and Spock had offended his father in their manner of greeting one another. But that was nonsense. He had seemed anything but offended just before he turned away.

Glancing quickly at Spock for her cue, she saw that he appeared slightly startled but not upset. His eyebrows rose, but then his face became...no, not impassive. She would have to call it thoughtful.

"Speak, Father." The words were spoken with quiet confidence; Spock obviously knew exactly what was happening and was quite sure how he should respond. Admiring his cool, Sarah did not notice that he had addressed Sarek as "Father." But then Sarek turned immediately to face him, and she realized that this was what Amanda had meant when she had said that Sarek could not speak to his son about T'Ara without Spock's permission. _How efficient,_ she thought. _And how Vulcan._ Now Spock knew exactly what the conversation would be about without any hemming and hawing from Sarek. For there could be only one reason that Sarek would wish to advise him as his parent.

"Peace and long life, Spock." Sarek hesitated fractionally and then, speaking Standard with obvious deference to Sarah's presence, he began to tell his son why he wished to speak with him.

Sarah listened first with awe and then with growing horror. With great difficulty, she kept silent until Sarek seemed to have reached a temporary stopping point. Then, not quite steadily: "You mean that T'Ara can't tell her own thoughts from Jill's?"

"The situation is not yet that critical," Sarek replied quietly. "But it soon will be."

"But Jill is human. She's not--"

"Your daughter is an extremely sensitive telepath, Sarah. Have you not observed her _en rapport_ with I-Chaya?"

But it was not the picture of Jill with I-Chaya that Sarah saw in her mind. For a moment she was far from Vulcan, alone with Spock and her child on a planet with a pale green sky and a yellow sun very similar to Sol. _The ant. She was in telepathic contact with the ant._ And it was as though one more piece of a complex puzzle fell into place.

"But--can't you do something about this?"

"Were I to create a telepathic block in T'Ara's mind, our purpose would be accomplished. However--" Sarah almost sighed. "That circumstance would cause Jill to experience a severe trauma when she again attempted to contact her sister." Then, looking directly at Spock: "T'Ara is too immature to understand all the implications of this situation. But Jill is not."

There was a moment's silence, and, seeing pain in Spock's expression, Sarah wondered if she had missed something important in the conversation. But when he answered his father's implied request, she knew why it was that Sarek had wanted to speak with him.

"I am not Jill's father." And Sarah seemed to hear his voice speaking from their common past: _Only the parent is permitted contact._

"Sarah is not telepathically competent to handle the problem," Sarek answered expressionlessly. "Nor, I believe, is Captain Kirk. Are you able to suggest another practicable alternative, Spock?"

 _Controlling,_ Sarah thought, unable to keep from turning a trained physician's eye on Spock.

"No, Father, I am not." It was almost a sigh.

So that was it. This was something that could not be explained to a child of eight in words.

"It's all right." Impulsively, Sarah laid her hand on Spock's arm. "Please don't worry."

They both looked at her with such identical expressions of indulgent patience that she almost smiled. Leave it to a human to blurt _It's all right_ as the solution to any problem.

The shuttle was waiting. Having accomplished his purpose, Sarek took leave of them without further delay. It was clear that he had not the slightest doubt that Spock could handle the situation, and it seemed to Sarah that his father's confidence transmitted itself to Spock in some measure. By the time the shuttle disappeared into the red clouds, he had relaxed a little, and as they walked back toward the dome, his eyes wandered over the field, automatically taking inventory of the various ships around and about.

One in particular seemed to arrest his attention: a space yacht parked at some distance from the pier on which they walked. There was something odd about the shape of it. Sarah, who knew little about such things, could not identify just where the anomaly lay.

Spock almost stopped walking, looking at the little ship.

"What is it?" she asked.

" _Deja vu_ ," he answered, obviously reluctant to admit to such a human experience. "It's gone now." But he had been under considerable stress in the last few minutes, and Sarah did not find it unusual that his half human mind might play tricks on him under such circumstances.

"Come, my husband." She took his arm and pressed her cheek against his shoulder. "Let's go home."

At the controls of his father's private aircar, he seemed to relax and even be enjoying himself operating the 'car manually until Sarah asked, "Did Jim get my message?" When he did not answer, but continued to gaze out at Vulcan's Forge, she went on to explain that she had sent Jim a message as soon as the _Enterprise_ went into orbit, asking him to beam down on his return to Vulcan and explaining cryptically why she thought it was necessary. "Nothing personal," she added hastily. "But she's at the age where human girls want to imitate their mothers and bake cakes for their fathers. She needs him, I guess." And suddenly she realized that there was more regret in her voice than she had intended. "Did he get the message?"

"Indeed." He did not look at her as he answered.

"Shall I tell Jill?"

"No," he answered without hesitation. "Jim is not on leave. Many unforeseen complications could arise between now and tomorrow. Sarah--" He looked directly at her now, obviously in some conflict, but needing to speak anyway. "Trust him. He will come when he can."

"I'll try. But he's never even taped to her, and it's been four years."

He gazed at her in silence for a moment, and she had the strong impression that he wanted to say more. But he did not say more, and she perceived that he was partially shielding his mind from her. For a moment she felt threatened and shut out, and repressed the feeling. He had not been home in years, and nothing was going to spoil it for them. Nothing.

He had put the 'car on automatic as they spoke, and now he surprised her completely by gently taking her hand. "Tell me about T'Ara."

"Well, she's--" The image of their child, looking up at her as she asked _Why are you sad?_ rose in her mind, and she knew he could see it as clearly as she could. "Beautiful," she finished softly, unable to think of another word.

He kissed her then, his free hand lightly stroking her throat, the other tightening on hers. In that moment she felt his longing for her even as hers for him rose to meet it. She understood immediately that little had been resolved in his mind; he still saw his need for her in direct conflict with his need to be his Vulcan father's son, with all that that implied. _It'll be all right,_ she thought, now holding him as he held her. _You'd still be Spock. I couldn't want anybody else like this._ So clear to her, and yet she knew that it still made no sense at all to him.

  
"Live long and prosper, Spock." Amanda greeted her son appropriately and with obvious affection. Yet she did not make a move to embrace him, even in the Vulcan manner, until he answered.

"Peace and long life...." He paused, and one eyebrow climbed as he tried valiantly not to smile. "...Mother."

"You'd better not," Amanda answered sweetly. And as mother and son embraced with traditional complexity, Sarah thought wryly: _Whose double standard?_

By the time Amanda had temporarily had her fill of fussing over her son, it was early afternoon. She suddenly began to insist that she was quite tired, really, and thought she would just lie down for a little while if they could get along without her. This last was said with a certain affectionate irony, but Sarah's genuine protests fell on deaf ears; when Amanda made up her mind, it was made up for good. A few minutes later, Spock and Sarah and the two girls, kept home from school for the day, were in the 'car on their way to an area of Vulcan's Forge just outside the city.

No one had ever told T'Ara that parent and child were supposed to love one another. Although Spock knew that humans still believed this even after several centuries of post-Freudian reality, his Vulcan background spared him the painful combination of guilt and resentment usually felt by an absentee father in an emotion-laden society upon finding his home semi-dominated by the needs of a small person less than half his size. Once he and T'Ara had been introduced, the dominant emotion they shared was, predictably, intense curiosity. Unhampered by guilt and jealousy, both of them set about satisfying that curiosity as directly as possible. It brought Sarah close to tears to watch them, throughout the late hours of the morning, seated facing one another on the floor, cross-legged, expressionlessly discussing God-knew-what that seemed to have something to do with the lower reaches of higher mathematics. The Soma was produced, and Spock watched while T'Ara put it together in several different ways--although it might have been the same way all two dozen and one times, for all Sarah knew. There was nothing in his expression or in his manner to suggest the slightest affection or even a hint of pride. Yet Sarah had never seen him concentrate so exclusively on any other conversation.

Also predictably, Jill spent most of the morning watching Spock and her sister with a peculiar closed expression in her eyes that tore at Sarah's heart. The child had greeted Spock with more dignity than affection, and Sarah knew that, much as Jill had once loved him, she now scarcely remembered him or their life on Tara.

But Spock had not forgotten. When Jill remarked at lunch that a herd of mandilla were grazing near the outskirts of the city, he asked immediately, "Would you like to go to see them this afternoon, Jill?"

"Yes," Jill answered, smiling and enthusiastic for the first time since he arrived. "That would be fun."

T'Ara gave her mother an odd, almost conspiratorial look at the mention of fun, but she too was intensely interested in going to see the mandilla--small herbivores about the size of the ancient dawn horses of Earth, but with fragile, hollow bones and wide wings that enabled them to glide from rock to rock although not actually to fly for long distances.

Because of the unusual coolness of the air, none of them wore desert suits, but only the loose trousers and v-necked tunic that were usually worn indoors. They left the 'car at some distance from the herd, and spent a quiet and pleasant afternoon moving among the animals, watching them glide about, munch, paw delicately at the ground, and give the four humanoids interested but fearless glances from time to time.

The overcast made it possible for the excursion to last longer than it otherwise would have. But Sarah and Jill grew tired long before the other two were ready to leave. Spock and his daughter continued to enjoy the animals and one another, while Sarah and Jill sat in the shade of a boulder and watched.

"Spock is too thin," Jill said finally. "Don't you think he's too thin?"

"I think he's just right."

Jill glanced at her and then away again. "You miss him, don't you?"

"When he's not here."

"That's almost all the time." Jill drew the male symbol in the sand, then the female symbol beside it, and it was Sarah's turn to try not to smile. But then Jill lost interest in her drawing, drew up her knees and stared at Spock and T'Ara. "Do you think Chris will come back while Spock is home?" she asked wistfully. "They should get to know each other, don't you think? Why don't you invite him?" There was urgency in her voice now.

With a shock, Sarah realized that she had not even thought about Chris or his tragic loss since Spock's arrival. Poor Chris. "He was angry with me when he left last night."

"Why?"

"He thinks I'm not being a very good mother to you. Because I didn't say anything when Sarek--when you left the table."

""Oh, well." Jill sighed tolerantly. "He prob'ly just doesn't understand Vulcans. Do you think he might come back anyway?"

"I don't even know where he's staying. I'm sorry. Maybe tomorrow--" But she did not want to think about tomorrow.

"Mother," Jill asked almost coldly, "why don't you or my father want him to come and see us like Chris did?"

 _You or my father_?

It seemed to Sarah that her mind split in two, scrambling along two paths at once, one as treacherous and potentially tragic as the other. _Stop,_ she thought, panicky. _Think what you're going to say. Don't just blurt something out. Think first._ She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Slowly, now. "What makes you think that he--that either of us doesn't want him to come here?"

"He didn't, did he?" The child's eyes were wide, and for the first time Sarah saw the depth of the hurt in her. "He never tapes to me. Just to you. And he was _right here_ when he dropped Spock off."

"Jill, neither of us ever--"

"He said he _wasn't_." The tears stood in her eyes now. "And you said it was just a _word_."

"I don't--what are you-- ."

"Don't you think I remember? You think I was such a little kid that I didn't even hear you?"

"He couldn't have said that," Sarah answered helplessly, trying to remember what had been said so long ago in the transporter room of the _Enterprise_. "He never would have said that." But what _did_ he say? "I can't remember exactly what he said when you asked him if he was your father, but it couldn't have been no. If you knew him--"

"Well, I don't. And I'd really like it if Chris would come back." Jill wiped her eyes with her arm, pulled up a tuft of dry grass, and began to twist it in her fingers. "Can't you find out where he is?"

Sarah pressed her lips together. _Jim is not on leave. Many unforeseen complications...._ "Yes, I could do that. And I will. But it's not Chris you really want to see."

"What difference does it make?" the child asked dully, still tearing at the grass in her hands. "I like Chris, and I almost can't even remember what my father looks like. After all, I only saw him once. You never even show me the tapes."

"He doesn't tape to you," Sarah said slowly and carefully, "because I didn't want him to." So clear now. So deadly clear. "I wanted you all to myself. I always have."

"So what else is new?" Jill looked up, almost smiling, and Sarah simply stared at her. "But he didn't have to let you. Why did he _let_ you?"

"I don't know." She held out her arm, and Jill moved to lean against her shoulder, still mutilating the grass she had pulled up. "You might tape to him and ask him."

"Oh--" Jill sighed listlessly. "I guess I might." She spread her fingers, but the dry blades did not blow away. There was no wind to blow them.

And Sarah thought distractedly, _What did he say when she asked him if he was her father?_ But try as she would, the conversation she was trying to remember remained a confused blur in her mind. Small wonder that it was even more distant and vague in Jill's.

One of the mandilla had mounted the boulder against which they sat, and now it took off in a glide over them. Involuntarily, Sarah cringed. To her surprise and relief, Jill burst out laughing and hugged her. "Oh, Mother, do you think ducking would do any good?"

"Well--" But they were both laughing now. Hearing them, Spock and T'Ara turned to look, eyebrows rising, which made them laugh all the more.

When she reached home an hour later, Sarah found a message waiting for her: RECEIVED YOUR MESSAGE AFTER LEAVING ORBIT. THANK YOU. TIME RIGHT FOR ME TOO. UNTIL TOMORROW. FONDLY, JIM.

As she stood looking at the screen, she realized that Spock was behind her.

"No," he said softly. "Don't tell her yet. Too many things could still interfere."

"Do you remember," she asked, turning, "what he said when she asked him if he was her father?"

"He looked up at you," Spock answered gravely, "and you said 'It's just a word to her now.'"

"Then he never answered her?"

"No." It was one of the few times that she had ever heard him really sigh. "He did not."

  
When they were finally alone, it seemed that they had nothing to say to one another.

The clear blackness of the night sky was still obscured by dull, red-black clouds. In the distance there was thunder--not a loud, healthy thunder as on Earth, Sarah thought, but a peculiar ripping sound, as though a monstrous giant were hacking away at the overcast with a dull knife. She knew that she was beginning to panic: less than eighteen hours and he would be gone again--forever, it seemed to her at this moment. No time to get to know his child, who was, in a very real way, more his father's child than his; at bedtime, T'Ara had asked for her grandfather several times, and had found it difficult to maintain control when she said goodnight. No time to begin to know what it felt like to be husband and father, to begin to forget what it felt like to be first officer of the _Enterprise_. No time for anything.

When she first saw him at the spaceport that morning, rigid with tension, she had determined that she would not mention her intended trip to Earth on this leave. But now there seemed to be nothing else worth mentioning. He stood at the open doors to the balcony off their room, his back to the bed as though he were trying to ignore it--as he probably was, she knew. _If I came to you now as I did then, I would not be Spock...._

Not knowing what else to do, she tried to make conversation, a human avoidance tactic she had always abhorred, and told him of her plan.

"It would only be for a few months," she finished, wondering why he did not move, let alone turn around, and why she could not seem to grasp the mental link between them since she had begun talking. "T'Ara will be older by then, and she's very strong. If necessary, I could learn how to support her emotionally. I mean, telepathically. I have the--talent, basically." Silence. "Spock, please answer me. This is important." 

After what seemed like a very long time, he asked softly, "Important to whom?" 

"To Jill." She hesitated. "And to T'Ara." 

Silence. 

"I wouldn't do it without telling you first. You know I wouldn't." 

Silence. 

"Please--haven't I cooperated enough? All I'm asking for is a compromise." 

No answer. 

"Oh, Spock--don't! Please, let's back off. I shouldn't have brought it up when we have so little time"-- _Time. Time. Time._ \--"together," she finished, her voice unsteady, ragged. Still he did not turn, or answer. "Oh, god _damn_ \--why doesn't it _rain_?" 

"It will not rain," he said expressionlessly, "before the Na-Shoma." 

Not trusting herself to answer coherently, she fled to the adjoining bath, resisting the temptation to slam the door. Pulling her tunic over her head, she silently cursed the stickiness of it; it tangled in her hair and she jerked at it until her hair came loose, cascading damply down her back. Everything stuck. Everything was damp with humidity and perspiration.... 

Suddenly she realized that she was undressing in front of a full-length mirror, and that he was watching her in it. 

Or had she known all the time exactly what she was doing? 

She went on doing it, knowing that she was making the greatest mistake of her life, but now far too excited to stop herself. And when it was done and she met his eyes in the mirror, she knew that they were about to get what they both really wanted, but not at all the way they wanted it. 

During the next few moments she learned well that a Vulcan in pon farr can't hold a candle to a human male who is trying to prove something. What he might be trying to prove she did not know, and cared even less while he was proving it. And even though she was not permitted access to his mind, she was certain that he did not know what it was either. 

After it was over, she lay across the bed for a long time, staring unseeing at the ceiling, aware that he had gone out onto the balcony. His clothing, she knew, had barely been disarranged, and she was sure that he was now in need of temporary solitude in which to try to understand what had happened to him. Physiologically, the chain of events was all too clear. But emotionally.... 

He had been terrified. 

She turned her head involuntarily to look toward the open balcony doors. 

It made no sense. Terrified of what? 

She rose, put on a light robe and followed him to the balcony. 

He was in shadow, hands clasped behind his back. She knew that the control mechanism which had failed him so completely was now in good working order. He was so still he barely seemed to be breathing. Without looking at him, she went to the railing and leaned her elbows on it, pressing her clasped hands against her mouth. 

"I do not understand," he said tonelessly, "why you were so responsive to _that_." 

"I _wanted_ you." She struck the railing with both fists. "And don't tell me you don't know what that means. I know better." No answer, nor had she expected one. Out among the clouds, the giant went on with his grim task, the knife getting duller and duller. "Spock, please don't make me feel--" 

"I have not made you do anything," he answered in the same tone. "Nor you, me. It would be well if you remembered that." Only now did his voice show emotion. He was almost whispering. "As I do." 

It took her a long time to answer him, and when she did, her voice was very small. "That's not the way the game is played. You were supposed to come back and blame _me_." 

"Why?" 

This time she could not answer, but only buried her face in her hands. Finally she said unsteadily, "I only tried to show you that you're human. Why must we both suffer so for that?" 

"What you showed me, Sarah," he answered almost gently, "is that humans use one another. It is a lesson I shall not soon forget." 

She set her teeth together, knowing that he had not meant to hurt her. But the spectre of his lost innocence was unbearable. In desperation, she reached for their link--and came up against a block so impenetrable that she gasped "Don't!" But then she realized that he was not, in fact, shutting her out any longer. She was intensely aware of his emotional state, now tightly controlled. She was even aware of his thoughts, largely identical to what he had been saying aloud. But he was blocking something--something very strong, perhaps even from himself. "Have you set up some kind of telepathic block?" 

For the first time since the conversation began, he turned slightly toward her. "Block?" 

"Yes. It's there. I can feel it. What's frightening you?" 

"I don't know what you--" 

"It's there. I can feel it. Can't you?" 

"Sarah--" It was almost as though he were speaking to a child. "You are overwrought. I think it would be well if you slept now." 

He wouldn't lie to her. Not now. And yet she knew he was lying. To himself. The thing was there. "Can you sleep?" 

"I think not." He turned toward her, and for a moment she thought he would reach out. But it was too soon. "Please don't trouble yourself." Again, his tone was almost gentle. "I shall not embarrass you. Jill and T'Ara are asleep, and my mother would not come to this part of the house tonight." And before she could stop him, he had left the room. 

She remained on the balcony for a long time, looking down at the dark courtyard below without seeing it, listening to the giant committing mayhem and yet not really hearing it. Guilt hung around her like smoke, waiting to engulf her. But for now, her thoughts were elsewhere. 

Terrified. 

Trying to prove...what? 

Knowing his mind, she knew that he seldom thought about his masculinity, much less worried about it. She knew too that he did not want to command a starship, and had never played dominance games with her; his intermittent need to have the last word sprang more from a certain obstinate stubbornness that from any need to dominate. 

Whatever it was, he had blocked it--not telepathically, but psychologically, as a human would block something that he simply could not face. 

  
She slept more deeply than she had expected to, and more dreamlessly. But once she was awake, she remembered that Spock's leave would be over that afternoon, and that he must do something about Jill before he left. 

Moving to the balcony, she saw that he and both children were indeed in the courtyard below, as she had half expected they would be. T'Ara sat on the ground staring at her Soma, with I-Chaya beside her, apparently staring at it with her. On the rim of the fountain nearby, Spock and Jill sat together, deep in conversation. The personal intensity of that communication was obvious even at this distance, and for a moment Sarah was taken back to the mornings on Tara when she had awakened to find them stargazing on the beach. But this was something altogether different. As she watched, Spock took Jill's hands, raised them, and touched them lightly to his own temples. Sarah could see Jill's face: the child was totally involved but surprisingly calm. Before yesterday, she had not seen Spock for almost half her life, yet there was no question in Sarah's mind that she trusted him completely. 

It was also clear to her that Spock did not intend to make the communication two-way, and she wondered if his reverence for the privacy of the child's mind was a good thing under the circumstances. The experience was bound to be deeply moving, perhaps even traumatic, and if Spock were not aware of what was happening within Jill.... 

He gently removed Jill's hands and put them in her lap, now speaking to her once again. But it was clear to Sarah that Jill was not listening to him now. Her lips moved, Sarah could read _I'm sorry_. Spock shook his head and went on speaking to her, obviously intent on ridding the child of any guilt she might feel, and just as obviously ignorant of what he should have been doing just then.  

_Put your arms around her_ , Sarah thought desperately. _Just this once. Oh, Spock, please..._. But she knew that he could not perceive her thoughts at this distance. And even if he could have, she might as well have been begging one of the mandilla to fly to the nonexistent moon. 

Finally Jill turned away and rose, beginning to walk toward the gate almost as though she were disoriented. Spock started to follow her, but Sarah called his name and he turned and looked up, startled. 

"I'll go after her," she said hurriedly, pulling her robe closer and securing the sash. No time to get dressed. If Jill had ever needed her, now was the time. 

When she reached the gate, Jill had already moved down the path. Expecting to find her in tears, Sarah was surprised to find her face to face with Chris Jones, who had apparently been coming up the hill when the child left the courtyard. 

"...For the whole day," he was saying urgently. "You could show me the city, and I could show you my ship. I thought maybe we could have lunch--" He saw Sarah, and his voice and his eyes changed, but almost imperceptibly, "Sarah, I want to apologize for the way I acted night before last. It was unforgivable." Smooth, she thought. Chris never sounded smooth unless he was trying to con somebody. "Do you suppose I could take Jill out for the day since she's not in school? I gather that you're--busy." Just a suggestion of tightness around the mouth. 

"I'm afraid not today," Sarah answered regretfully. Jill looked so eager, so expectant. But _The time is right_. "I--have plans for her this afternoon." 

"This morning, then?" For some reason, it did not seem to matter to Chris how long she gave them permission to be gone. 

"Jill?" 

"It would be fun to show the city to somebody who's even less Vulcan than I am." Jill gave Chris a delighted smile. 

"Well--all right. But you have to be home by lunchtime." Jill nodded. "Chris, you've never met my husband. He and T'Ara are right here in the--" 

"No." It came out a very flat statement, and then Chris seemed to want to amend it. "I--ah--think it would be better if I didn't interrupt your family activities today. You have only a few more hours with him." 

"But it would only take a few minutes." 

"Sarah--" He smiled, this time with genuine affection. "I'd really rather not. You and he and T'Ara have so little time together. You shouldn't be troubled with outsiders." He came to her and laid his hand on her shoulder. "Same old Sarah. It's...fantastic." For a moment he seemed to be somewhere else, looking at an image not nearly so pleasant. But the moment passed. "I'll take good care of Jill. Don't ever doubt it." 

"Why should I doubt it?" she asked, not at all sure why he was making such a point of something he must have known she would take for granted. "Have--fun." Would that word ever have the same meaning for her now? She smiled and waved as Chris Jones took her child down the hill and out of her sight. 

When she re-entered the courtyard, it was immediately obvious that the Soma had had its day. Again, Spock and T'Ara were both sitting cross-legged on the ground, facing one another like a couple of Japanese businessmen having tea. But they were not talking business. 

"It feels _good_ to laugh," T'Ara was saying, her green eyes fixed intently on her father's face. "Do you know why?" 

Even at a distance of several meters, Sarah could feel the intensity of his emotions as though they were her own. There was no block there now, and nothing to hide behind it. He was not even controlling. Whatever had tortured and terrified him the night before was lost in his awe and tenderness, almost as though he were holding an exquisitely fragile piece of cut crystal in his hands, afraid to breathe lest he break it. 

"Wanting to laugh is part of you, T'Ara. One day you will choose which part of you, the human or the Vulcan, will shape your life. Shall I tell you of my life decision and how it was made?" 

"Yes," the child whispered, fascinated. 

"It was the twentieth day of Tasmeen, a month before I was to undergo the kas-wahn on Vulcan's Forge. A--cousin of ours was visiting...." 

Without a sound, Sarah slipped away upstairs and dressed, having decided that she would make rounds today after all. 

  
Once at the hospital, she became involved in the routine. Several hours slipped by without her being aware of them. She knew that the time of Spock's return to the _Enterprise_ was approaching, but she also knew that T'Ara needed him even more than she did, having never known him before. A sense of personal inadequacy pervaded her consciousness. It seemed as though she had bungled two of the three relationships most important to her, and immersing herself in her work helped to make the ache in her soul more bearable. 

It was almost midday when she sought out T'Loreth, having finally realized the true reason she had come to the hospital this morning. There had to be some way to discuss the events of the night before with her friend without being too specific. Spock could not have been blocking anything human; his human responses had been all too evident. It must have been something Vulcan that had pounded against a mental block of his own making, but not of his own choosing. A Vulcan response to something she might have said or done? Amanda might know. But Amanda was human and Spock's mother, and T'Loreth was neither. 

T'Loreth was also as close to being frantic as it was possible for a Vulcan to be. A conference in her specialty was to be held at the Science Academy in a few days. The buzzer on her vidphone sounded as Sarah entered her office, and it was almost five minutes before she had T'Loreth's slightly divided attention. 

"I guess this is the wrong time," Sarah said reluctantly, "But I just--" No. She could not admit even to T'Loreth that her question had any personal connotations. And her rounds today had given her a perfect opening. "I talked with Kathleen again for a few minutes, and she was asking me about the--well, I call it the subservient posture of the Vulcan wife. It was awfully hard for me to explain it to her, since I don't understand it myself." 

"Perhaps," T'Loreth answered distractedly, "you find it difficult to accept emotionally rather than difficult to understand." She checked a paper on her desk and turned aside to file it. "I have been reading your Montrose. You know his work?" 

"Of course. 'The Freud of the twenty-first century.' What are you reading-- _The Availability Obsession_?" 

"Indeed." Again T'Loreth was momentarily distracted, and again she turned aside to file something. "It is most interesting that females of your culture were once in this position, and largely by their own choice." 

"That was his thesis, yes. 'Men, women, and children are obsessed with the absolute necessity of the absolute availability of women, but women are the most obsessed of all.' Talk about a cultural neurosis." 

"Montrose's century is not that far in the past, Sarah. It is possible, is it not, that both you and Kathleen Greenwood are overreacting to what you call a subservient posture." T'Loreth frowned at still another paper. "I find it difficult to understand how such a 'neurosis' could have developed in a society where the life of the male is not dependent on the female's--availability." 

The vidphone buzzed again and T'Loreth answered it, sorting papers as she talked. Watching, Sarah began to sense that she too was pushing too hard. She was tired, even though she had been at the hospital less than three hours. Now it seemed that two realities stood side by side in her mind, both quite clear in themselves, but each unable to illuminate the other. But the feeling of being on the brink of an insight made her mind swim, and in an instant the feeling was gone. She wanted to continue the conversation. But T'Loreth was still on the 'phone, frowning, harried. 

"Talk to you tomorrow," Sarah mouthed silently, and T'Loreth nodded absently, almost unaware that she was leaving. 

The short walk home refreshed her a little, for although the air was still heavy and moist, a breeze stirred here and there. The weather would break in a few hours. 

Looking for mail tapes, she entered the house from the outside, not through the courtyard. She glanced through them and stopped dead. One of them was from Mary Jones. 

Shaking a little, Sarah sat down, staring at the tape. _Dear friend_ , she thought. _How can I bear this?_ Chris had not been specific about how long ago Mary had been killed; this could only be her last tape, sent before she left on the vacation from which she would never return. For a moment Sarah considered throwing it away without running it. But no--Mary deserved better from her than that. 

"Hi, luv." Mary appeared instantly, pert and blond, but somehow a bit more subdued than Sarah had ever seen her. She gave news of Robbie and Stevie, and of the work she was doing in her specialty, neurology, at All Worlds Hospital. But even though her throat was tight with grief, Sarah could not help but notice that Mary was not herself. When she finished with her news, she hesitated, and the tape went dark for a moment as though she had turned off the recorder. Then it went on again. "Sarah, Chris thinks I'm brooding too much on this, but something happened last month that's really getting to me. I don't know why it bothers me so much, but I even have nightmares about it. Maybe you remember that he and I and the boys were planning to take a vacation at Aspen in January. I think I taped to you about it at Christmas. Well, something came up, and we didn't go. It was just a little thing. Robbie fell off his bike and got a slight concussion, and we didn't think it would be good for him to go skiing. So we cancelled the trip and--the next thing we knew, there was this terrible story on all the networks. One of the lifts fell, and several people were killed. It would have been more, but the thing was partially empty." The blue eyes were clouded with tears now. "I know this sounds crazy, but I just know we would have been on that lift if we were out there. Those empty places were ours. I just know it. But you know Chris. He doesn't believe in ESP or anything like that. He calls it weird. But I just can't help--" 

Sarah switched off the viewer and reversed the tape, although her mind did not seem to be working. Or rather, it seemed to be screaming. 

_"...Sounds crazy, but I just know we would have been on that lift if we were out there. Those empty places were ours. I just know it. But you know Chris. He doesn't believe--"_

Hands grasped her shoulders from behind, pulled her to her feet. Spock held her steadily between his hands, but his eyes were full of fear. "What is it? What's happened to Jill?" She could not speak, and was sure she could not have made an audible sound to attract his attention in the courtyard. Yet he was here, shaking her now. "Tell me. Who took her away with him? Sarah!" And he shook her again, harder this time. 

"Who is that man?" It was only a whisper, for her throat would not let her scream. _"Who is that man?"_

  
The face on the vidscreen was impassive as only a Vulcan's could be. And of course he could not know why Commander Spock of the U.S.S. _Enterprise_ would be making inquiries about a small space yacht parked near one of the piers at the shuttleport. 

"Dr. Jones has not filed a request for orbit clearance," the face informed them. "Nor has he boarded the _Peggy Jones_ as far as we know. However, if you wish to contact him, it would be possible to--" 

"No," Spock interrupted evenly. "I think not." After the vidscreen went dark, he turned to Sarah. She realized that he was almost totally in control, and wished for the first time in her life that she too were Vulcan. "You heard." 

"It is his ship, then," she whispered. "The one you noticed yesterday morning." A fusion drive modified for warp speed. She thought of the ship's odd silhouette, and of Spock's inexplicable feeling of _deja vu_ when he saw it. She knew now why he had had the experience, for he had explained in a few words about the 'ghost story' that McCoy had told only a few hours before the _Enterprise_ reached Vulcan. But there had been no logical reason for him to connect the ship at the spaceport with McCoy's story, and he had been under stress at the time. 

"The bonding link--" She could still barely speak, but she knew that he understood. 

"You think of him as 'Chris.' McCoy was the only one of us to whom you spoke his full name." 

_Four years_ , she thought. _Four years, and we haven't been together long enough for him to know Chris's full name._

"But we have to stop him!" It was almost a wail. There was no police force on Vulcan, and Spock had already explained that they could not go to the Federation without proof that a kidnapping was actually in progress. Jill was barely an hour late for lunch, and there was no way that they could prove conclusively that the man she had gone away with was not exactly who he claimed to be. Not in the little time they knew they had left. 

"We must go to his ship," Spock said firmly. "If he is intent upon taking her away with him, he will have to come there eventually. If he has not requested orbital clearance from the shuttleport, we may still have time." 

"Spock--" 

"Please," he said, so gently that the tears came to her eyes. "There is no 'hole in the sky' through which this man can take your child. It is far more complex than that." 

"I know that. But it's--a visual image that I just can't seem to get rid of." She pressed her hands together and found them like ice. "Please let's go." 

At that moment, out in the courtyard, a figure in Starfleet gold began to materialize. And for the first time since they had realized Jill's incredible situation, they both remembered who Sarah had invited here this afternoon, and why.  

The little ship was absolutely silent under a sky that was now beginning to lighten. Standing on the pier where she had stood with Spock and Sarek only the previous morning, Sarah felt the breeze touch her cheek, and then ruffle her hair. Still only a breath in the midst of the heavy stillness. _The Na-Shoma will come soon_ , she thought vaguely, her eyes fixed on the silent ship until they burned. Deserted. It looked absolutely deserted. And yet.... 

"He probably knows what you look like." Jim's voice came to her as though from a great distance, but she knew that, only a meter or so behind her, Spock and his captain were assessing the the situation--to all appearances as though they were on a mission together, except that neither of them sounded quite normal. "If he's researched the family background--" 

"Sarah believes that my alternate is not her alternate's husband in his universe," Spock insisted. "But there is a probability of 95.4 percent that your alternate is Jill's father. He is much more likely to recognize you." 

"But he knows you're a Vulcan, in Starfleet." 

"If you will permit me, gentleman...." Sarah turned abruptly to face them. They were both staring at her. "I'm sorry." Belatedly, she realized that sarcasm was hardly appropriate at the moment. "I'm going to get my daughter now." Her gaze held Jim's. "I'm the one who let him take her, and I'm going to get her back. I have to." 

She knew that he understood, perhaps better than anyone else could. But understanding was not enough. 

"And?" he asked quietly. 

"He knows me. But he also knows that I haven't the physical strength to overpower him. That may seem like a disadvantage, but I don't think it is. He'll let me get closer to him--and to Jill." 

Still not enough, but that did not surprise her. "And?" 

"I can reach Jill telepathically. He doesn't know I can do that, and I doubt very much that he could 'hear' me do it. I used to try it with--with Chris when we were kids, Jill's age, before I started shielding everybody out. His sisters and his brother could receive a little. I scared them. But Chris was like a brick wall." 

"You don't even know if she's in there." 

"She's in there." 

Jim's gaze shifted to Spock's. It seemed to her that Spock did not respond in any way, that his expression did not change. But after a moment his eyes met hers. 

"Go, then," he said softly, and she turned, stepped off the edge of the unfinished pier, and began to walk steadily across the field toward the _Peggy Jones_. 

Deserted. No sign that it was not deserted. Yet she knew that her child was inside. 

The breeze freshened as she paused near the ship, looking up at the smooth surface that now seemed to tower over her. The hatch was not too far from the ground for Jill to jump down safely if it were open. 

With every scrap of concentration she possessed, Sarah thought: _Open the hatch and jump down, Jill. Ask Chris to show you how. Open the hatch and jump down...._

Nothing. 

She had tried to keep the desperation out of her mental voice, knowing that it would frighten the child. But now, when there was no answer but silence, she thought again, deliberately, of the hole in the sky that had no bottom, and from which no light came. _Open the hatch and jump down, Jill. Ask Chris to show you how._

The hatch opened slowly, and Jill peered down at her. "Mother? What are you--" 

"Jump!" Sarah held out her arms, and the child jumped, nearly knocking her over. 

"What're you doing here?" Even as she held the squirming little body in her arms for one wordless moment, Sarah was aware that Jill was highly agitated. "How did you know where we were? Mother--Mother, did you know that Chris had a little girl who d-died? He said he didn't have a little girl, but I knew--but he did. Her name was Peggy and she f-fell a long way and she died." Pulling away a little, Sarah studied the child's face--and more--intently. Overexcited. A little frightened. But unharmed. "That's okay," Jill said quickly. "You can listen in if you want to. She really did die. She fell all that way and she--" 

"Yes. I know about that." She was aware that Chris had dropped down from the hatch and was standing beneath it, watching them. "Spock is over on the pier, and there's someone with him who would really like to see you. I want you to go to Spock. Right now." 

"But Chris was going to take me for a ride in his ship." The child's voice rose. "What are you doing here? Why are you so scared? You were thinking about a hole I was going to fall into, just like Peggy f-fell when she--" 

"You are not going to die," Sarah said firmly, thinking it too, just to make sure. "It was Chris's little girl who died, and you are not Chris's little girl. Go to Spock _now_ , Jill." 

"A-all right." The child looked back at Chris, standing like a statue beneath the hatch. "I hafta go home now," she informed him with genuine regret. "Can you come back some other time so we can take that ride in your ship?" 

The man's lips moved, but no sound came. Finally he managed to smile a little, a grotesque imitation of a smile. "Maybe," he managed to say. "Goodby--Jill." 

"G'bye." Freeing herself from her mother's arms, she began to walk backwards in the direction of the pier. "I'm sorry Peggy had to die," she finished, and then turned and broke into a run. 

"What did you do to her?" Chris asked thickly. "She almost went crazy trying to get to you." 

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you." 

"You have a husband and another child," he said softly, pleadingly. "Please. You let me--us have her once." 

"That wasn't me." 

"I know." He stared, his face colorless. "You're...so different. Here." 

"Tell me about her." She did not want to know, and yet she had to know. 

"She never married." 

"Why?" 

"The--your--the Spock in my universe was killed when the Tara colony was annihilated." He took a deep breath. "She told us about it, but I'm not sure I got all the details. They were examining a cave of some kind. Y--Sarah and Spock and someone else. I don't remember who the other--" 

"Sutek," she said softly. "The geneticist who was my partner." 

"Yes. A Vulcan. He was outside somewhere." 

"In the hovercraft." 

"I guess so. Well, you--Sarah followed Spock into the cave, and he heard her coming and got upset that she was in there." 

"Heard her coming?" 

"Before she could get very far in. He moved outside and ordered her out. They had an argument, she inside and he outside...." _Is that an order, Mr. Spock?_ "...And in the middle of it the bomb went off. He was pointing at the hovercraft and he got the flash right in the eyes. The other--this Sutek got out of the 'craft to help him, and then the shock wave hit and there was a rock slide. It killed them both." 

"What did she do?" Sarah whispered. 

"She went back into the cave and closed the door. She wanted to protect the fetus if she could. She was in there about a year, she thought." 

"J--Peggy was born in there?" In the dark? 

He nodded. " She--Sarah was afraid to leave until then. She never told us a whole lot about it. But when she finally got back to us, she was--not herself. She never has been, since then. They--there wasn't much of a bond between her and Peggy. They were both deeply disturbed when they got back. Sarah called her 'Jill,' but I guess she never called her by name much while they were isolated. She started calling herself 'Peggy' after a few months, and we let her. It seemed like she didn't want to be 'Jill' after her mother left." 

"Left?" 

He sighed, and for the first time since she had met him, the sadness in his eyes spoke of a loss other than the loss of his wife and child. "She had a succession of jobs on one planet after another. Staff positions. Research grants. We lost track of her a couple years ago." 

_Lost?_ But she could not get the word out. 

"She disappeared, Sarah. She didn't want to be found. When she got back from Tara, she didn't want to be close to us, or Peggy, or--" 

"I think...that's about all I want to hear. Except--what about Peggy's father?" 

"Sarah never told us who the father was." 

"But didn't the _Enterprise_...?" But she knew the answer. 

Chris frowned, puzzled. "A scoutship picked them up. The _Enterprise_ never came back." She could not answer, or even speak. After a moment, he said quietly, "Goodbye, Sarah. Please try to listen a little harder." He turned away quickly, grasped the edge of the open hatch, and swung himself up, disappearing into the hole. The hatch closed, turned, sealed with a small thump. 

Unable to think or even to feel, Sarah began to walk back toward the pier. It was not until she was almost there that she realized that Spock had moved off toward the dome, leaving Jim and his daughter alone together. 

  
He had watched Jill running from the ship with feelings that were more ambivalent than any he had ever experienced. When he had last seen her aboard the _Enterprise_ , she had been scarcely more than a baby, and she was not yet even remotely the woman she would someday become. She seemed, in fact, almost androgynous--thin but not skinny, her fair hair held at the back of her head in some sort of comb, and flying out behind her like a plume. The loose pants and tunic she wore seemed to have been designed to minimize the differences between the sexes, but he sensed that she would not have been comfortable in a dress; in three years, maybe, but not now. She came plunging out of the abyss in which he had believed she was lost, back into his life headlong but without even knowing he was there. It seemed to him that she was coming at him entirely too fast, and for one of the few times in his life, Jim Kirk was just plain scared. 

She had been making straight for Spock, although slowing her pace as she neared him, almost hesitant about approaching him. Before Jim could wonder about this, she caught sight of him and came to an abrupt stop a few meters from the pier. Then, still more slowly, she climbed up on it and came toward him, scanning his face intently. 

At that moment, he became aware that Spock was fading fast down the pier toward the dome. 

She came up quite close to him, still looking him over, and he began to wonder if she were running a fever. Her cheeks were flushed, and she looked like a new ensign after the first dangerous landing-party assignment. Then something snapped into place behind her eyes, and he knew that she knew where she had seen him before. 

She took two steps backwards, and suddenly her eyes were full of pain and tears. She looked away then, away and down, and thrust her hands into the pockets of her trousers. 

Slowly he moved to stand in front of her, raising her chin with one finger. Up close, she seemed a lot smaller. "Let me help." 

"You _can't_!" It was an accusation. "You're just Spock's captain. Everybody is always somebody else's something. Never mine." 

"Your...what?" But he knew. He did not know how this thing could have happened, but there was no other explanation for the pain in her eyes. 

"You said you _weren't_." It was a wail of despair and confusion. The tears were running down her face now, even though she had pressed her fists into her eyes. 

In despair himself, he went down on one knee and pulled her against him as her arms went around his neck. "I never said that, Jill. I never said that. Please don't cry." It was all he could think of to say to her, and it seemed incredibly pointless at the moment. But somehow he could not stop saying it over and over.   
   
   
  

Still not thinking clearly, Sarah started toward them, aware only of the fact that her child was in tears. 

"Sarah." Spock had barely raised his voice, and he was still some distance from her. But she could not fail to respond to the urgency in it. "Don't." He reached out as he came toward her, extending his hand but not attempting to restrain her physically. "Please. Don't." 

She hesitated only a moment--before she began to think again, before she realized what it was that he was asking, begging her not to do. Then she took the hand extended to her and allowed him to lead her away, realizing for the first time why he had not put his arms around Jill that morning. 

  
A short while later, Jill sat on the high coping that ran partway along the edge of the pier, her father's hands resting lightly on either side of her, her face level with his. She was trying very hard not to cry anymore, since it seemed to make him so unhappy when she kept on doing it. But she simply did not understand. 

" _Did_ you answer me?" 

"I don't think so. But you said something that distracted me. Don't you remember that? 

"What did I say?" 

"Oh--just something a little kid would say." He smiled then, and that made her smile too, although she couldn't figure out exactly why. "I'd never say I'm not your father, Jill. You just don't remember what really happened." 

"Then why don't you ever tape to me?" 

"Because I misunderstood...something. Several things." 

"Did you think Mother didn't want you to?" 

He stared at her, apparently thinking hard. "I thought so. But now I think I was wrong. Grown-ups can be wrong, you know." 

"Oh," she assured him, "I know that." Which made him smile again. "Didn't you ever love each other at all?" 

Part of the smile seemed to fade away, and she knew he was thinking again. Just about everything she said seemed to make him think pretty hard. "Yes, we did," he said finally. "And we do. But--not the way she and Spock do. I'll explain it to you someday. Or your mother will. When you're older." 

"Oh, that's okay. I take Basic Reproduction. We aren't up to the end yet, but I always read ahead. I fast-forward on the boring parts, though." 

Still leaning on his hands, he rocked backward a little, dropping his chin so that for a moment all she could see was the top of his head. It was hard to figure out whether he was embarrassed or trying not to laugh, but she thought it was both. He was a new person, and she couldn't always tell with new people. Then he raised his head again, and she was sure he had been trying not to laugh, even though he was hardly smiling at all now. "I'm not talking about Basic Reproduction. But I just can't explain it to you now. I promise I'll try when you get a little bit more grown up, though." 

"All right," she answered immediately, and felt that he was surprised. But with the grown-ups she had known, a promise was always kept. 

There was a strange sound in the vicinity of his belt. She already knew that he didn't have any pockets because she had asked him for a handkerchief when she was crying and he had told her about not having pockets. But he unhooked something from his belt and flipped it open. "Kirk here." 

"Captain," said a voice out of the inside, "they're givin' me the very devil out of Space Central here. We were supposed to be out of orbit half an hour ago." 

He looked down the pier, and she looked too. Spock and her mother were standing close together with their arms around each other. She had never seen them do that before, and she couldn't help staring. 

"Ah--Scotty, give us another five. Kirk out." The thing in his hand made a sound midway between a moan and a squawk, but he snapped it closed, put his hand on her shoulder, and gently turned her to look at him again. "Can you keep a secret?" 

She set her chin firmly so as not to show how disappointed she was. Your very own father shouldn't come on as though you were about T'Ara's age. "I suppose." 

"What'd I do wrong?" He studied her thoughtfully for a moment, and she wondered if he might be some kind of a hearer too. "I did say something wrong, didn't I?" 

She explained about wouldn't-you-like-to, and how-you've-grown, and can-you-keep-a-secret. 

"I see." He lifted one of his hands to scratch the back of his neck. "Right between the eyes." He was smiling again, and she was glad. She liked him to smile. "There's something I'd like to tell you that I've never told anybody else. If I promise never to say how-you've-grown, will you listen?" 

"Why?" 

"Well--" 

"I mean, why do you want to tell me?" 

"Because it's important to me that you know." And it was. You could tell. 

"All right." She knew that he knew she wanted to hear the secret now. When he put it another way, it came out different. 

"Almost everybody else on my ship has somebody to come home to. Even Spock, these last few years. But I haven't." He raised his hand again and lightly brushed her cheek where a tear might or might not have been. "It's something like not having a father when everybody else has one." 

"How do you know what that's like?" 

"I...guessed." 

"Oh." She swallowed hard. "The Na-Shoma is starting." 

"The what?" He looked around. "The sun's coming out." 

"It's the south wind. The Na-Shoma. In about a few minutes, there won't be any more clouds. You'll see." 

"That's a big thing around here--on Vulcan?" 

"It only happens at the end of winter." 

He looked up at the sky, where the clouds were beginning to break up. He was, she decided, just as handsome as anybody's father. Handsomer, even. 

"Sometimes it doesn't even happen," she went on. "There has to be a stat inversion first." 

"You know what that is?" She explained, and he seemed to be fascinated by what she said. Then: "Do you know what a lodestar is?" 

"You set your course by it." 

"Well, I don't. But you've got the idea." He put his finger under her chin again. "If you'll be my lodestar, I'll come and see you whenever I can." 

She smiled, forgetting that there was an incisor missing on each side of the top. 

"All right," she said, and was not surprised at all when he hugged her. 

  
As Spock led her away from Jill and her father, Sarah had begun to repeat to him what Chris had told her about her alter's life. When they had gone about halfway to the dome, they stopped, and she finished the story, her voice beginning to shake as feeling returned. "Was there a rock slide?" she asked when the story was finished. 

"Indeed." His gaze was lowered, and she could not see his eyes. "I saw it when I was bringing Sutek back into the cave." Sadness. Almost--grief? For Sutek? 

"What is it?" she asked. 

He looked up then, and said softly, "There is no T'Ara there." 

She had thought only of his death, and of that other Sarah who was not quite sane. But now she felt his grief as though it were her own, and it was. 

Always before, she had repressed her need to hold him, and instead simply touched him or laid her cheek against his shoulder, fearing that he might pull away or reject her in some less overt way. It had seemed, until now, that he must always make the first move, that if she did that she would violate his privacy in some unforgivable way. But this time she did not think about rejection or privacy, or anything else that had seemed important before. Her arms were around him, and his around her, before she could think about anything but how much she loved him at this moment. 

He held her tight, his face hidden against her hair. And she thought _If I'd done this last night..._ , and cried out with the pain of it. "Oh, my dear love--what other mistakes have I made that I don't know anything about?" 

Later she would wonder what she had expected his answer to be: a litany of her mistakes, or some kind of opting out? But what he actually said surprised her more than anything he had ever said to her before. 

"You think too much about making mistakes." The words were muffled against her hair, but all that her empathetic sense had ever told her of his love was in his voice now. "You have your answers when most of us would still be forming questions, and when those answers prove wrong, it seems to you that you have lost control of everything at once." He drew away little so that he could met her gaze, and she saw, even in his suffering for her and with her, a gently ironic smile in his eyes. "My Sarah, who does that remind you of?" 

And she thought, _Without this love, I would be like her. Lost._ And the pain was more than she could bear. 

She closed her eyes, fighting it, and felt the touch of his hand on her face, fingers probing for pressure points. She had seen him do this only once, and heard in her mind Sutek's voice: "Spock, help me now." She had not understood it then, but now it was exquisitely clear to her. It was as though he drew the pain from her soul. What remained was neither peace nor emptiness, but a heightened awareness, a sense of being cleansed. She remembered all that Chris had told her; nothing had been taken from her except the pain. 

She opened her eyes, feeling the breeze on her face--the bright south wind that they had all waited for so long--and the touch of his hand on her forehead, gathering back the tendrils of her hair that the persistent, freshening wind was drawing across it. 

"I love you." She knew that she had never said those words aloud to him before, and wondered why. And it came to her that until now, she had not really known their meaning. "That may not have precise connotations for you, but it does for me." 

They were still holding each other when she realized that they were no longer alone. 

"Spock," Jim was saying gently, regretfully, "Space Central is giving Scotty hell. We have to go." 

"Say good-by to T'Ara for me." It was only a whisper. He touched his extended fingers to hers and stepped away, controlling but calm. 

Jim stood with his hand resting lightly on Jill's shoulder, hesitating. There was no reproof in his eyes, but only a deeply felt need for an answer. "How did this get so bad?" he asked softly. 

"I wasn't listening." Sarah held out her arms, and Jill came to her and hid her face against her. "I'll do better now." The temptation toward breast-beating was strong. But when she looked at Spock, he was smiling faintly, one eyebrow on the rise, and she found herself smiling too, at both of them. 

Jim nodded, returning her smile; clearly, what she had said was enough for him. "Spock?" And in a moment, they were both gone once again. 

  
"Why does Spock have to go?" 

Jill and Sarah had walked almost to the dome in silence but in step, their arms around each other. When Jill asked the question, Sarah's first impulse was to wonder that she had not asked why her father had to go. But no doubt that was as obvious to the child as it had once been to her mother. 

"On Earth," Sarah answered wistfully, "they'd say he's following his star." 

They walked on for another few steps, and the Jill said matter-of-factly, "It's not his star. It's his Captain." 

Slowly, deliberately, Sarah guided their steps to the edge of the pier. This close to the dome, it was much lower, and when she sat down on it, she was at the child's eye level. _Other people talk to their kids as though they were children_ , she thought. _Why can't I?_ "Do you know what simplistic means?" 

Jill gazed at her thoughtfully before answering. "It doesn't mean I'm wrong." 

"No. Because you're not wrong. But it's much more complicated than that. Starfleet was his life long before he met your father. He went against Sarek's wishes to be part of it." 

"He _did_?" Jill was momentarily fascinated by this vision, but the moment passed. She looked down, and Sarah resisted the impulse to try to probe her telepathically. Whatever was coming would come, and Jill's privacy must not be violated simply because her mother had the power to do it. Finally: "I never saw him put his arms around _you_ until today." 

When she looked up, Sarah said calmly: "That's right. You never _saw_ him do that until today." 

"You could try and get him to stay here with you instead." But it was really a question. 

"And who of us would be happy then?" 

The child flung herself against her, hugging her tight, and Sarah could feel the relief surging through the small body in her arms. "Don't be sad," Jill said softly, comfortingly. "They need to take care of each other." 

As they stepped off the transporter pads, the first officer of the _Enterprise_ asked with what was, for him, elaborate casualness, "Captain, did you ever get 'off track' with Drillmaster Concord?" 

The captain, whose mind at the moment was far from his memories of being a plebe at the Academy, answered absently, "Sure I did. Didn't we all...." He stopped then--stopped walking, stopped talking, and simply stared, his mouth literally falling open. 

Spock too stopped walking, but only for a moment--long enough to favor the captain with one brisk half nod accompanied by two raised eyebrows. He then moved quickly out of the transporter room, looking as though he would be insufferably pleased with himself for at least a month. 

The attendant, who had not heard the exchange, watched the captain's grin spread and considered the remote possibility that Mr. Spock might have cracked a joke. The probabilities, he decided, were negligible. 

The captain headed for his quarters, still grinning. 

Max Concord had been an Academy legend for decades. His job was to introduce incoming first-year cadets to a variety of tentacled creatures, toxic clouds, and green slimes via the most realistic simulations on the known worlds. That was his job, but his passion was military history, and his hero the legendary Marine top sergeant, vocabulary and all. He ran his sims like boot camp, and no plebe who ever got "off track" was allowed to forget it for the rest of the term. 

By the time Kirk was halfway to his quarters, he was laughing. 

No Starfleet cadet would ever forget Drillmaster Concord's monologue, which never varied. As you crawled through the slime, hacking away at the tentacles, he followed you, shouting at the top of his voice until you knew you'd hear it in your dreams: "Keep on track, mister. Keep on track. No more bullshit, hear? You hear me?" 

With eyebrows, yet. 

The captain changed direction, heading for Sickbay, already imagining the conversation. "You're not gonna believe this, Bones", he would say, and then....Before he reached his destination, he was laughing again. 


	5. The Visit

  


# THE VISIT

> "The Visit" is a substory to a novella of mine called "Ni Var," in which Spock becomes two entities, one Vulcan and one human. It should be emphasized that neither Spock is an android, just as neither Kirk was an android in "The Enemy Within." The procedure that separated the two Spocks involved the actual duplication of matter while in the form of energy. Thus both Spocks are the "real" Spock, but one is all Vulcan and the other all human.

In the silence following Kirk's leaving, the human Spock stood near the door with his back still toward his Vulcan counterpart as it had been when they both faced their captain, forgetting one another in their common concern for him. Then the human became aware of the Vulcan harp still in his hands. Without looking at his alter, who stood near the desk, he moved slowly to the bed and lay down on it with his head and shoulders propped slightly higher than his body. Softly, he touched the harp strings, and an old Terran folk song drifted through the room--a song their mother had sung in their childhood.

The Vulcan made a slight movement--almost the restless, uneasy movement of an embarrassed human. Then he turned toward the figure on the bed and placed his hands behind his back.

"It serves no purpose," he said expressionlessly, "to encourage human interaction with the captain."

The human glanced at him, smiling faintly, but did not answer. The melody went on, sweetly haunting, speaking of many memories.

"Or with Sarah," the Vulcan finished.

One of the strings gave a discordant plunk, abruptly silenced by the human's hand. There was no sound in the room as he returned the Vulcan's gaze without blinking.

In the midst of his conflict with the captain, orders had been received: the _Enterprise_ was to divert briefly to Vulcan to pick up a new crew member. The ship would go into orbit in less than one Standard day. It would be late evening in ShiKahr when they reached Vulcan, but the new crewman would not come aboard until morning.

"You intend to beam down," the Vulcan said quietly. It was not a question.

"I want to see Sarah," the human answered evenly.

"See?" The Vulcan's eyebrows rose slightly.

"I want to make love to my wife," the human continued without raising his voice, willing to maintain his tenuous control. "You've stopped me before, but you won't--"

"I have not prevented you," the Vulcan answered coldly. "I have made it possible for us to remain in control until...." He hesitated.

"Until hell freezes over?" The human sat up, the harp still in his hands. When his alter did not answer, the human went on, his voice ragged. "You're very glib about being in control, my...friend? The one time I really needed you...." He could not go on, and the Vulcan's gaze shifted away as they both remembered Sarah's eyes in the mirror, recklessly inviting an embrace that had become mindless copulation. "Forget it," the human said thickly, and then gave a half sob of mirthless laughter. How easily that most inappropriate of human idioms had come to mind. "Until when?" he asked, again in partial control.

"Until we can find a solution to this problem of _ours_ that is in harmony with both our natures."

"That's impossible." The human lay back on the bed once more and closed his eyes.

"Then why have we tried?"

"I don't know."

The harp strings murmured again. Even with his eyes closed, the human could tell that his alter was motionless, and he ruefully began to understand how that still figure, standing with his hands behind his back, might drive most humans up the walls, as McCoy would say....

"I recall a Terran fable that we puzzled over as a child."

The human opened his eyes, and again the strings were silent. "Fable?" But he knew, just as each of them invariably knew what the other was thinking. "'The Shadow,'" he said softly, fascinated. "Hans Christian Andersen."

"Indeed."

Almost as though they again shared one mind, both recalled that the Shadow had separated itself from its master and eventually convinced the Princess that it was real and that its master was a shadow.

The human smiled a little. "Do you think I could?" Then the smile died. "Do you think I'd _try_?"

"No. I recalled the story because of the Shadow's first act as a separate entity."

They stared at each other. The Shadow's first act had been to hide beneath the skirts of a woman.

Moved by an emotion so strong that he could not begin to control it, the human sent the harp crashing against the bulkhead, directly behind where the Vulcan's head had been an instant before.

"You're jealous!" The human's voice contained a unique blend of incredulity, triumph and anguish that neither of them paused to analyze.

"That," his alter informed him impassively, "would be most illogical."

The human's one-syllable answer was lost to their ears as he rose abruptly and knelt to inspect the smashed harp. The strings were intact, but the smooth, polished wood was cracked and broken in a dozen places.

He looked up, numb. "I'm sorry."

The Vulcan sighed. "That too is totally illogical. The emotion that caused this did in fact exist. To deny that--"

"I deny nothing." The human shook his head hopelessly. "But I was wrong, and I am sorry. It would be illogical to deny _that_ , wouldn't it?" He picked up a loose fragment of wood and gazed at it with pain. "This was yours too. I had no right...." His voice trailed off into horrified silence as he stared up at his alter. _This is yours too. I had no right_. And for a moment the image of Sarah seemed to stand between them.

For the first time since the harp had flown at him, the Vulcan averted his eyes, his face rigid with his effort at control. Finally he spoke carefully, as though the words themselves were fragile. "I shall not prevent you from going to her. But you must know that nothing you do alone will resolve the conflict that has existed in this marriage from the beginning."

"I want her to know," the human said softly, "how much I want her. I know that's not logical. But I want her to know."

"You will regret this," his alter answered, speaking no louder than the human had spoken. It was not a threat. It was simply a statement of fact. "As will she."

The human made himself ask: "And you?"

Finally he rose to his feet and faced his Vulcan half squarely, wondering that the other was able to look directly at him without apparent pain. And he thought: _Could he know her better than I do?_

"Go if you must," the Vulcan said quietly, sadly. If he were in fact jealous, he was controlling it well. "But as my research continues, the probabilities increase that we will soon be one again. Then--" He hesitated almost imperceptibly. "Then, Spock, all our regrets will be one as well."

  
At noon the following day, ship's time, the human Spock stood with his captain in the transporter room. They were alone there.

"Give Jill my love."

Spock hesitated only an instant--Kirk had to give him that. Less than two weeks as a human, and he'd already learned how to make a gesture. "You could come with me."

"Thanks, but...no thanks." Kirk repressed a rueful smile at the expression of all too human relief that flitted across Spock's face.

"But how can I explain to her why you aren't coming too?"

"You'll think of something," Kirk answered quietly.

"I don't understand," Spock said slowly, frowning, "why you should have that much confidence in me--now."

"So what do you want--a logical explanation?" In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Kirk could not help grinning a little, and even Spock smiled faintly. "She's probably asleep already, and I saw her six months ago. I know she's happy now."

The _Enterprise_ had been on patrol when the first officer had sought out his captain and announced with relative calm that it was necessary that he be on Vulcan within ten days. In the years since the near tragedy enroute to Altair, Starfleet had made provisions for just such a situation, and arrangements had been made for the _Enterprise_ to rendezvous with a smaller military vessel on patrol in the same sector. The _Enterprise_ itself had been close enough to pick Spock up when he was able to return to duty, and it was then that Kirk had been able to spend several hours with Jill, shortly after her tenth birthday. He remembered those hours now with a mixture of tenderness, pride, and embarrassment. With typically Kirkian disdain for bureaucracy, Jill had obtained an all-school clearance and proudly dragged him to meet each of her teachers: "This is my father, Captain James T. Kirk of the U.S.S. _Enterprise_...."

"I think you should go alone," he repeated, still smiling, but thinking now of his other reason for wanting to remain on board. Gesturing toward the transporter platform, he moved toward the console. "Dismissed, Mr. Spock. Get the hell out of here. Your wife's waiting for you."

  
Many members of the crew had requested eight-hour passes on the Vulcan Federation Preserve. The corridors were almost deserted as Kirk left the transporter room. Sulu had the con, and the bridge was now manned by a skeleton crew. Kirk had allowed everyone to assume that he too would beam down, and had a tentative date to meet McCoy at the Officers' Club. But he did not intend to beam down right away, and perhaps not at all.

His chronometer said 1206:46 as he entered his quarters, although he knew it was late evening at Spock's home. Those who knew that the first officer would be home overnight had had varying reactions, ranging from Uhura's affectionate "Maybe you'll get there before your little girl goes to bed, Mr. Spock," to a few snickers among the junior officers. But the captain knew that there was one member of the crew for whom the next eight hours would be very long indeed--one who was used to being alone, but whose aloneness on this occasion could not help but be compounded by the fact that almost nobody knew he was there.

On Kirk's desk was a flat carton about half a meter long and a quarter of a meter wide. Last evening, after granting the human Spock's request for leave, he had thought for a while and then gone to one of the recreation areas, found the carton in a cupboard, and packed it in full view of four young ensigns from Engineering who were playing poker nearby. If any of them had wondered why the captain was dismantling a three-dimensional chess set and packing it away, none of them had asked. One of the indisputable advantages of command.

Now, with the long, flat carton under his arm and a stack of short, flat packages in the other hand, he moved though the corridor toward the first officer's quarters. Hoping he would not be seen and prepared to circle back if he were, he tapped lightly on Spock's door, using the latest top-secret Federation code, known only to command personnel: _Kirk here_.

After a moment, a voice within answered softly, "Come."

The Vulcan, as Kirk had expected, was working at his desk computer. His eyebrows rose as Kirk displayed his wares and said lightly, "Lunch break, Mr. Spock. I thought you might like to have a bite to eat and play a little chess for a while." He handed the Vulcan one of the smaller packages, standard rations for isolated maneuvers and almost solid vegetable protein, and looked around the room for a small contrivance that could be converted easily into an extra chair, a cabinet, a free standing clothes-hanger, or a small game table. "Where's your four-in-one?"

"Captain," the Vulcan began," there is no necessity--"

"Do you want me to leave?" Kirk asked quietly, looking straight at him.

Their gaze held, and the Vulcan said softly, "No."

"Fine." Kirk smiled easily. "Then will you do me the courtesy, Mr. Spock, of telling me where the devil you keep your four-in-one?"

Silently, the Vulcan turned off his viewer, rose, and produced his four-in-one from a storage compartment. Where it belonged.

  
When Ambassador Sarek was offworld on official business, his wife and daughter-in-law would sometimes have a late dinner together after Jill and T'Ara were in bed. The ostensible reason would always be that Sarah was delayed at the hospital and Amanda had chosen to wait and eat with her so that she would not have to eat alone.

This particular evening, Sarah knew without even mentioning it that she was not expected to have eaten when she got home. Tired as she was, it was comforting to know that Amanda would have put the girls to bed and arranged what the two of them had long since begun to refer to as a tea party. They both drank coffee, and their simple meal was hardly party fare. The foods that Amanda cycled on these occasions were Vulcan foods, but only those that visually resembled Terran foods. They were served in the courtyard rather than in the dining room, and eaten with the accompaniment of real conversation. Neither of them had ever verbalized aloud exactly what they were doing. Sarah privately considered it a harmless kind of cheating.

Before she left the hospital, she took time to check on one more patient--a Terran woman about her own age who was two-thirds of the way through her second pregnancy. Her Vulcan husband was in the diplomatic service, and she had conceived a dozen light years from home but had managed to maintain her health and that of her unborn child throughout several months on an alien planet. Now the husband had been called home, and the wife had entered the hospital for two days of routine tests. So far the results had been excellent, and Sarah found her patient in good spirits, anticipating being allowed to go home in the morning. A pleasant way for a physician to end a long day.

And yet, as Sarah began to walk across the hospital grounds, a mild depression settled over her like a faint mist. It was not unfamiliar in recent months, and she knew that it would pass. But the sight of her patient's ripening body had filled her with a wistful envy that was not easily banished: There but for some lousy luck go I.

She knew that her feelings were totally illogical in a very human and personal sense. A pregnancy at this time would have meant enforced moderation in her activities just when her professional life was more demanding and rewarding than ever before. Knowing herself, she knew that she would have been impatient, frustrated, perhaps even resentful from time to time were she now spending the better part of a year as a patient was well as a doctor.

And yet she had activated her synthesizer implant when she knew, six months ago, that Spock would be returning to her in the throes of pon farr. For part of the elemental longing that flashed across light years to link their minds with fire had been the need to perpetuate the race--the deep, instinctive drive of every Vulcan ever born to grasp the rare moments of possible procreation and seed them with potential.

She had once been appalled by the sheer desperation of the Vulcan drive toward self-perpetuation. Perceiving it telepathically for the first time, on Tara, she had at first been unable to distinguish it from the Vulcan male's primal fear of being left to die alone in agony. The two were almost indistinguishable from one another, the second reinforcing the first as nature intended. Initially she had tried to mitigate the desperation through the mind link, only to realize that her own temporarily insatiable body was working against her in ways that were all too evident. While the fever raged, the spectre of death--his own, and the death of his race--terrified him on a level more profound than thought. Eventually she had come to understand that the exhausting demands of plak tow were nature's way of ensuring that the Vulcan male would make the best of the little time he had, and that her own almost mindless physical response was part of nature's plan as well, kindling and rekindling his need, ensuring the continuation of the race in spite of the rare season of male fertility.

She knew that her present feelings were also part of that instinctive response--a lingering sense of loss, of emptiness. Vulcans had perfected the synthesizer to a point where there was a probability of 91.28 percent that conception would occur during pon farr. But because of a minor malfunction that she could have corrected easily had she been aware of it, the synthesizer had failed to provide sufficient hormonal stimulation to trigger ovulation, one of the device's many functions.

Like most women psychologically primed for pregnancy and failing to achieve it, she had experienced an emotional let down. But as she walked up the hill toward her tea party with Amanda, Sarah knew there was more to it than that. Logically, it made no sense. She had already borne her husband a healthy child, and in a few years she would have another chance. Even emotionally, her Earth-bred fear of overpopulation chided her subliminally for her regrets. But although she was not Vulcan, she was a Vulcan's wife; something deep within her stirred with a bittersweet longing for that missed chance, that precious potential that would now never be actualized.

And so she walked home with her mind totally occupied with the incredible phenomenon of an instinct so strong as to be trans-racially communicated, never remembering until she was about to enter the courtyard that, after a long day almost totally away from her office, she had neglected to check her vidcom for incoming messages before she left the hospital.

She hesitated for a moment, obscurely uneasy. Any emergency would have been relayed to her. Yet for an instant she almost turned back, drawn as though by a psychic magnet.

Then the feeling was gone. There was only the light, hot breeze off the Vulcan garden on the hill--a breeze smelling faintly of jasmine even though she knew that no Earth flower could grow there.

Any messages not relayed to her could wait until morning.

  
She had always been aware that Amanda was a telepath too. Her own sensitivity was still carefully shielded; well-learned habits were easily maintained outside the bonding link, and Amanda respected her privacy as she did Amanda's. But two telepathic women living congenially together in the same house cannot fail to perceive one another from time to time. Their contacts had always been brief, broken with affectionate firmness, by mutual consent and without apology as soon as awareness dawned. The information gained was minimal, very like a snatch of overhead conversation, although non-verbal. Each knew what the other thought and felt about her without telepathic contact, and so there were no unwelcome surprises.

But as they lingered over their coffee this evening, Sarah found herself deeply _en rapport_ with Amanda before she was aware that her barriers were down. A companionable silence had fallen between them, and Sarah--her hair down and her hospital tunic replaced by a loose-fitting lounging robe--had been staring pensively into her cup, her mind drifting back to the patient she had envied so much only an hour ago.

Suddenly, she saw her own feelings superimposed on those of another, like a double exposure on a blurred piece of film. That other was younger than she, perhaps in her mid-twenties. She sat alone in the courtyard, almost in the same spot where Sarah now sat, watching a dusty, half naked toddler at play with his sehlat--an old sehlat, with one broken fang and a dry, patchy coat. The image was so vivid that it seemed for a moment that the tiny boy was playing here even now--so vivid that Sarah's professional sense registered automatically: Pre-control phase. Twenty-four to thirty months, Standard.

Then it came to her who it was who played there with I-Chaya's predecessor, dead so many years, and a wave of tenderness nearly obscured the double exposure: the young Amanda, watching her son at play, knowing that she would never bear another child because her body had paid too dearly for the first. The same longing that had overtaken Sarah earlier now rose within the young Amanda until the two seemed almost as one, except that Sarah had hope and Amanda had none.

Then the vision blurred and dissolved, leaving Sarah with a piercing sense of the other's resigned acceptance forever entwined with deep regret, all kept hidden because the young Amanda had no friend who might understand.

Shaken and close to tears, Sarah hid her face in her hands for a moment, only half hearing Amanda's whispered, "Oh, Sarah, I'm so sorry. I should be more careful." Sarah shook her head sharply, but Amanda reached across the table and laid a gentle but insistent hand on hers. "Please. That was so long ago. I was just...remembering. I'm sorry you got the full brunt of it. I was trying to break the contact before it made you even more depressed than you are, but I guess it got out of hand."

"I'm glad." Briefly, Sarah laid her cheek against the hand on hers, took a deep breath and smiled, no longer in danger of breaking down. "I don't think I'm really depressed. It comes and goes. And now you know that somebody does understand, even if it's years too late." Their gaze held as the hand on hers tightened. Then Sarah asked quietly, "Am I broadcasting to every telepath around?"

"No. I don't think anybody but an Earthwoman married to a Vulcan would be able to tell what's bothering you. But you triggered some very vivid memories." Amanda sighed, patted Sarah's hand and then sat back, withdrawing her own hand. "Enough of that. For a little while we'll be supersensitized to each other. Sarah, fight this. Get perspective on it. I don't believe that a Vulcan woman would feel this way. The emptiness. We feel defective, lacking in so many ways." She smiled tenderly. "Being not-pregnant is not the end of the world, emotional Earther. It's just being not-pregnant."

Sarah could not help smiling. "In other words, my behavior is totally illogical."

Trying hard to look solemn, Amanda inclined her head slightly. "Indeed."

And then, freezing Sarah's irrepressible giggle before it was audible, Amanda half rose in her chair, her eyes shining in sudden joy as she looked beyond Sarah's shoulder toward the gate.

"Oh, my dear," she said softly, "why didn't you let us know?" Before Sarah could turn, Amanda leaned forward and took her face between her hands. "No--don't look yet. Make a wish, my darling, and then turn around." But Sarah turned, not daring to wish.

Later she would wonder why she did what she did then. Still later she would know, remembering with painful vividness that her reaction at that moment had less relationship to her years of memories of her husband than to the indefinable aura he now projected. It simply never occurred to her to greet him as she always had, her two fingers extended to meet his. Here, for once, was simply a man in desperate need of being held in his woman's arms, of being welcomed home with every part of her. And so Sarah welcomed him home, her response to him limited only by her awareness that they were not alone.

Then she went stiff with terror. _Who are you?_ The insane question screamed in her mind. _WHO ARE YOU?_ The body that moved and breathed against hers was as familiar as her own. But the mind that touched hers now was very nearly the mind of a stranger.

She pulled back, grasping his shoulders, almost shaking him, her eyes wide and terrified. "Are you--what's the matter with--?"

Nothing to fear, not a scrap of malice in him, virtually incapable of intentional injury to anyone. Loving, desiring her with a total abandon that brought tears to her eyes. And yet-- _Somebody took him apart_ , she thought. _Somebody took him apart and put him back together all wrong._ But it wasn't that. What was still there fit. It was what was missing that terrified her, although she could not have explained why, let alone what it was that was missing.

"Stop." He pulled her close once more, his mouth almost touching her ear. "Sarah--" He hid his face in her shoulder, and she could feel his heart pounding. (Slow? Why should his heart be beating so slowly?) "Please, not now. I am as I have always been." He raised his head and took her face gently between his hands. So gently. So much love in those dark eyes. And she thought, _Oh, my love--forgive me._ "I'm very tired," he went on softly, but a little louder than his previous words had been--loud enough now for his mother to hear. "But I'm not ill. Don't worry." Slowly, deliberately, he ran his forefinger over her lips, his eyes now shining softly, denying his claim of fatigue. "I'm quite all right." He released her slowly, his gaze still lingering on hers, and went to greet his mother.

Sarah now realized that Amanda had walked a little way across the court and was standing with her back to them, examining a flowering hedge with a great deal of apparent interest. At her son's approach, she turned and they exchanged the ritual Vulcan embrace, greeting each other verbally as well. Amanda seemed to scan her son's face with unusual intensity. But she had barely touched him and was, no doubt, scrupulously shielding out his thoughts--as he no doubt was shielding himself. Eventually she smiled, apparently satisfied that all was well with him after all, and asked as they walked back toward Sarah: "Why didn't you tell us you were coming? We could have kept the girls up."

He explained that he had sent a message to Sarah at the hospital, but waved away her apologies abstractedly, having noticed the remains of the tea party on the table. The arrangement of the dinner service was obviously as Terran as the food was meant to look, and his eyebrows rose in a way that was as Vulcan as his faint smile was human.

"Ah--we --," Amanda began, and stopped. "This is--well--we like to--when Sarah is--" She sighed. "Oh, Spock, it's perfectly obvious--"

"Indeed." It seemed to Sarah that he was gently mocking himself. His Vulcan self. "Interesting."

"No doubt," Amanda said wryly. But she was obviously relieved that he did not seem to disapprove. "Haven't you any luggage? How long can you stay? I don't expect your father back until tomorrow."

"I know." It was quiet statement of fact. But before Sarah could ask how he knew his father was offworld (Had he checked somehow? And if so, why?), he went on: "I regret that I shall be here only until early tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow morning?" Amanda stared. Her eyes flicked to Sarah and then back to her son. "Well--I'll say goodnight then."

Instead of making a protest that would not have fooled anyone, Sarah went to her and embraced her silently. Deeply moved as she was, she was aware that Spock was watching them embrace, and was perhaps more deeply moved than she.

"Mother--" He stood as usual, hands behind his back. But the tenderness in his eyes was most unusual. "May I see you to your door?" And he bowed slightly, a courtly little bow with one eyebrow askew and a hint of a very un-Vulcan smile in his eyes.

Sarah could not help staring at the image of her Vulcan husband deliberately playing the gallant knight. But Amanda recovered more quickly.

"I'd like that very much," she said softly. "Goodnight, Sarah." Her lips brushed Sarah's cheek and then she moved toward her son. For an instant Sarah thought he would offer his mother his arm, and it seemed to her that Amanda's hand moved expectantly. But he did not offer his arm, and as he and Amanda moved away from her, Sarah thought she knew why: Spock did not want his telepathic mother in prolonged physical contact with him tonight.

She turned to the table and began to clear it while she waited, her mind in chaos even as her body swelled and softened with anticipation--a painfully urgent anticipation about which, she was sure, the divided spirit who was her mate was not even remotely divided.

  
Spock and his mother walked in silence until they reached the entrance to the north wing, now open to the evening breeze. There they paused, and Amanda turned her face to the stars. "On nights like this," she said softly, "I often think of [Mimbi](SG2TheVMimbi.html), going home." They both smiled a little, but sadly. "I've always been sorry that you were alone with Mimbi when it died. A child of eleven isn't equipped to lose a friend when he's all by himself in the desert, let alone lose it in such an alien way."

Spock lowered his eyes. "You tried to comfort me," he said almost in a whisper. "I rejected you."

"Oh, Spock--"

"I didn't want to." He gazed at her now, pleading. "Mother, you know that there have always been...two of me."

"I understand. I told you I did, even then. Don't you remember?"

"Yes." But his voice was ragged with disbelief. "How could you understand?" he burst out finally. "A human woman among Vulcans. You needed me and I--"

"No," she said quietly, but with great compassion. "I was never alone, Spock. And I'm not alone now. You couldn't understand then. But I think you can now that you have Sarah."

Their gaze held for a moment and then Spock looked away. A casual observer would have had trouble judging whether he was moved or embarrassed. But his mother knew that he never lowered his eyes in precisely that way out of simple embarrassment.

"I wish I could talk to you. But I can't. Not even now."

"Perhaps you will someday," she answered, not giving herself time to puzzle about his meaning lest she be tempted to pry into his life. "But even if you can't--" She paused, searching for words. "There is a part of me in you. I feel it so very strongly tonight. I'm sorry I ever doubted that."

"Mother," he answered softly, "it's over. Long ago."

"But I slapped you."

"It's over." And he smiled at her--a smile that she had never seen before.

For a long moment she stood gazing up at him, speechless. But when she did speak, her voice was quite steady. "Thank you for that," she said. She stood on tiptoe and lightly brushed his cheek with her lips as she had done with Sarah. "I don't think I'll ever forget it. Goodnight, my son." And she was gone, her footsteps dying away in the shadows.

Spock stood looking after her for a few moments. Then he turned away --and looked into two large yellow eyes staring at him without blinking from the darkness beneath the dining room window. "You too, old friend?" he asked softly. "You want to know who I am too." He sighed deeply. "I-Chaya, if I really knew that, I'd tell you. And Sarah." Silence. "Goodnight, old friend. Take care of my people." He walked away, and the sehlat watched him, still unblinking. There had been no move to attack. But the man who moved slowly away from him across the courtyard was not familiar, and I-Chaya knew it without question. 

  
The courtyard was deserted except for I-Chaya, the table now cleared of the revealing remains of the supper that Sarah and his mother had shared there. Remembering, he smiled briefly and then grew serious again, attempting to ignore, since he could not control, the sweet, insistent ache that invaded his body whenever he thought of his wife. He had a message to deliver before he could join her.

The door to Jill's room was open, and he saw at once that she had fallen asleep while reading. She lay on her stomach under a light covering, her cheek pillowed on her hands. A tape viewer stood on the mattress a short distance from her head, almost like a watching eye, its screen still lighted. The room was fairly neat, but a dusty coverall and a pair of even dustier desert boots lay in a pile near the foot of the bed. They contrasted sharply with the feminine garb of ageless design draped over a nearby chair: a black leotard and a pair of once-pink ballet slippers, their crumpled ribbons mute testimony to the number of times they had been tied and untied.

On the head of the bed, a creature perched. Of late, it seemed that Jill always had a small animal with her, and this one was a particular pet; because it was so silent and relatively clean, she was permitted to bring it to her room. The nearest Terran analogue was an owl. The night-flying creature was a quadruped, but with relatively large wings, now folded over its sides. It had no beak; its head looked rather like the head of a cat, and its eyes were as round as I-Chaya's and as blue as Earth's sky. The sound it made was the name Jill had given it. Spock and the creature stared at one another in silence, and then it spoke softly.

"Who," said Who.

"That," Spock whispered gravely, "would seem to be the hot topic of the evening."

"Who," the creature agreed, blinking once. But unlike I-Chaya, it did not know Spock as Spock, and it did not seem in the least disturbed at his presence.

He shut off the viewer and removed it to the bedside table, reluctant to disturb the child's sleep and yet unable to bring himself to leave without speaking to her. As he turned off the reading light, she stirred and half woke, sleepily sliding her cramped hands out from under her face until her cheek rested on the sheet. As she yawned, eyelids fluttering, he leaned over and gently stroked her hair.

She turned on her side and looked up at him, heavy-lidded, smiling drowsily. "Spock?" Half asleep still, in a pleasant waking dream where all things were possible. "Is J.T. here too?"

Even all human, he could not help but disapprove of the name (if one could call it that) by which Jill had elected to call her father. And yet he could not help but empathize with the problem she had finally solved in a manner that seemed to please her and apparently pleased as well as amused her father. She had not discussed her dilemma with Spock, and he had it only through Sarah's tapes to him that Jill had been unable to bring herself to address her father either conventionally or by his given name. "I'd feel funny," had been her summing up of the situation. And so she had decided to call her father something that no one else called him. It was, Spock had to admit, rather symbolic, since Jill's relationship with Jim was not quite like any that either of them had ever known. And so he tried to ignore the fact that both his aesthetic sensibilities and his Vulcan-bred sense of propriety were mildly disturbed every time Jill called her father "J.T."

"No," he answered gently, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "But he asked me to give you his love."

He noted with relief that she was too sleepy to question him very much. Instead, she smiled in drowsy delight. "Did he really say that?"

Spock nodded, again touching her hair in a light caress.

She seemed to rouse a little. "You're different this time."

He almost held his breath, but resisted the impulse to withdraw his hand abruptly.

"Have you seen T'Ara yet?" she asked, obviously confused by something she could not define.

"No. I had a message to deliver first." He stroked her hair lightly once more and then withdrew his hand.

Surprising him completely, she sat up and put her arms around him, laying her cheek against his shoulder. Wide awake, she might not have taken such a liberty even now, responding instinctively as she was to another human being who loved her. But when she yawned again, he realized that she was still far from awake, and permitted himself to hold her gently.

"Goodnight, Jill Kirk," he said softly. "Sleep well."

He had been concentrating on shielding his thoughts from a possible telepathic probe, knowing that Jill was quite capable of breaching his unreliable barriers in her present drowsy state, even though she had been schooled in recent years to avoid the uncontrolled use of her talents. Now he realized belatedly that the words he had just said to her, preoccupied, had revealed more of how he thought of her than he had ever revealed before.

After a moment of silence, she said slowly, "That's not my name." But she was not reproving him. In her voice was only a confused wistfulness that touched him deeply.

"Yes," he said quietly. "It is."

She did not answer, and after a moment he realized that she was again more than half asleep, her head still on his shoulder.

Gently he laid her down again, pulled the covers up to her neck, and tucked them around her shoulders. Her eyelids fluttered, but she could not keep them open. "See you tomorrow," she murmured, turned over, and was asleep. Even if he had had the heart to tell her she was wrong, she would not have heard him.

He stood looking down at her in silence for a moment, then glanced at Who, who had apparently gone to sleep too. And then, drawn almost against his will, he opened the connecting door to the room that was between Jill's and Sarah's, slipped through it and closed it silently behind him. 

Neat as a pin. How well he remembered his own childhood, when his Vulcan alter had insisted on an orderly room at bedtime while he himself had often longed to simply crawl into bed and clean up in the morning. 

T'Ara slept quietly and deeply, wearing a plain, toga-like Vulcan sleeping robe in contrast to Jill's pajamas. (For tonight. Tomorrow night, he knew, Jill might wear a flowered nightgown.) Unlike her sister, this child of his did not sprawl on her stomach, her covers rumpled, perhaps with one foot sticking out from under them, perhaps with her mouth slightly open. T'Ara slept like a little princess, on her back, arms at her sides, her dark hair center-parted and drawn smoothly behind her delicately pointed ears. She looked relaxed rather than rigid, but would probably not move between the moment she closed her eyes and composed herself for sleep and the moment she awoke. In the space between her ears and her shoulders, the ends of her hair still flipped stubbornly this way and that instead of lying straight. But other than that one relatively human touch, she appeared totally Vulcan. Only her father, gazing down at her, fully understood that two children slept there in one body, and that one of them might even now be dreaming very human dreams. 

He stood looking down at her, his hands clasped behind his back and his emotions in chaos. Human though he was, the Vulcan attitude of profound parental protectiveness for his offspring had been deeply ingrained in him, and was now sharpened by his almost uncontrollable need to express his human love in human ways. She was a beautiful child, and she was his. At that moment, he wanted more than anything to take her in his arms and tell her how proud he was of her. And yet, remembering his own conflict-ridden childhood, he knew that he could never subject his own child to such an unbearably intense emotional experience. T'Ara would be raised as a Vulcan. Both he and Sarah had concurred with Sarek's opinion that the ritual of a life decision was not really appropriate for a child who was so dominantly Vulcan physiologically; had the often tragic results of bringing a part-Vulcan child up as a human been known when Spock was a child, he would not have been given that option. That choice had given them both a responsibility not to make T'Ara's life more difficult than it was. Sarah, he knew, was discharging that responsibility with integrity. Even all human, he could not intentionally do otherwise. 

But still he stood beside his child's bed wishing, as every human does occasionally, that things were different. He barely heard Sarah come to the door and stand there watching him, and was almost startled when she whispered, "She won't break, you know." 

"No," he answered softly. "I can't wake her. But--oh, Sarah, how I envy my father. How I wish this child of mine were really mine." 

He had spoken with deep weariness rather than with uncontrolled emotion. But he heard her catch her breath in utter astonishment, and realized that whole and entire, he would never have expressed that thought aloud, even to her. 

"What's happened to you?" Her eyes were wide with fear once more. "Spock, _please_ \--" 

"I will." For a moment his gaze returned to the face of his child, still sleeping peacefully. Then he moved toward his wife, again experiencing a piercingly sweet emotional and physical longing that he refused to control. For once in his life he would go to her without thought of the consequences, refusing to think about what price his alter--or perhaps even his own conscience--might exact of him afterwards. Sarah, at least, would understand. Sarah, at least, could not be hurt. 

  
As he moved toward her, Sarah thought that he was about to speak again. But instead he gathered her up in his arms, carrying her easily the short distance to their bedroom, pushing the door closed after him with the heel of his boot. Laying her on the bed, he stepped away briefly, removed his boots and stripped to the waist as she began to forget what it was that she had wanted to ask him. But when he lay down beside her still partially clothed, she realized that her question would be answered before they satisfied their mutual hunger--more swiftly than it could be answered in words and on a much more fundamental level. 

The touch of his fingers was light but firm, familiar, reassuring. She was sure now that the worst was over, and that they would soon be one in love.... 

His truth seared her like a blue-white flame, the pain tearing at her so that she could not even cry out. Even Jim Kirk, who had experienced a similar rending asunder, could not have grasped what Sarah understood in an instant of deep rapport. Spock, who had spent his life searching for a way to integrate, had awakened from a phaser stun totally disintegrated, the ties between the two halves of his personality severed and throbbing with unbearable psychic pain. Since it was only the human part of him that lay with her, his face a mask of remembered agony in the half darkness above hers, it was only his pain that she could really share--the feeling of being stripped of his control, for eternal moments facing the possibility that he might have been left with no control at all. In a flash of telepathic comprehension, she understood that his very sanity had been threatened those first few days, and that only his intelligence had eventually drawn him back, step by step, from the brink of madness. 

But in the mirror of his memory, she also saw the face of his Vulcan alter--the other half of him whose absence had been as obvious to her mind as the absence of half his body would have been to her senses. Unable to touch the Vulcan's mind, she could only surmise the depth of the anguish she now saw in those haunted eyes. 

But then the vision began to slip and slide, out of focus. Dimly she realized that both she and her human lover had risen above themselves telepathically, had gone to the absolute limit of their human capabilities in order to achieve as complete a rapport as possible. Yet, fundamentally, they were far out of synch; the bonding link, established and strengthened for years between the entire Spock and his wife, stretched like an empty road between their minds--a road that they had formerly walked sure footed, but which was now almost inaccessible. Temporarily, at least, her bondmate did not exist as a single entity, and there was simply no way she could reach him as bondmate and husband. Instead, she had momentarily, and at the cost of great psychic energy, achieved deep rapport with a human mind whose configurations were essentially those of a stranger. That rapport was now thinning and weakening. Soon, she realized, it would be gone, and mentally fatigued as they were, they might not even be able to achieve the almost reflexive emotional empathy of their initial embrace in the garden. And as that realization dawned on her, she knew that it was dawning on him as well. 

She realized then that they were both panicking, unable to face losing the rapport their love had fed on since Tara, and yet losing it all the faster because neither of them could control the panic that was destroying it. 

Because they were both only partially clothed, the barriers to the physical union they were both aching for were relatively easily disposed of. But even that took time, time that their swiftly waning mindlink would not allow them. She was reminded briefly of another joining, mindless and with no rapport at all. But that memory passed almost immediately, for it bore no similarity to what was happening to them now--two bodies striving desperately to compensate for the dying mindtouch as well as to satiate physical desire, somehow failing more completely in the former even as they approached the latter. They climaxed almost at the same moment, the faint thread of mental contact snapping under the strain. And they were each alone. 

Almost weeping at the bitter irony of what had happened to them, she tried with all the strength she had left to hold him to her physically. But she knew that too was useless. Even all human, he was infinitely stronger than she was. For a moment he rested, trembling, his face hidden against her throat. Then he began to pull away. 

"And where will you go?" she asked desperately. "Will you run away and hide again because love has to be learned?" 

_Too much_ , she thought, watching him. Whole, he could control. But separated out, he could not even cope. He looked like a ghost of his former self already. 

Gently she eased herself out from under him, and without a word went to the wardrobe where she kept her sleeping robe and the one he wore at home. When she returned to the bed, grimly modest, he was sitting on the edge, leaning on both arms, his head bent. 

"Put this on, then," she said quietly. He raised his head, stared at her for a moment, and then complied. "Now sit down here with me," she went on in the same even tone, crawled nimbly to the center of the bed, and sat with her feet tucked under her. "We're going to talk this time, my love. No more running away when things go wrong. You've showed me what you want--what your humanity--" There were tears in his eyes. "Come here," she said softly, sure that she would have to coax him, perhaps even beg him. But with a heartbreakingly despairing gesture of capitulation, he stretched out and hid his face in her lap, laying his arms around her gently, almost fearfully. 

For a time they were silent, he fighting tears that he would not permit himself to shed, and she with her head bent, her hair falling forward and almost brushing his shoulder as she lightly touched his hair, the tip of his ear, the upswept slope of his eyebrow with gentle, caressing fingers. _Make a wish, my darling._ And her own eyes burned. For she knew that in her heart of hearts, she had wished him all human more than once. 

"It wouldn't have to be like that," she said finally, softly. "How can I make you believe that it wouldn't have to be like that?" 

He did not answer, and she knew that he would not. His own words to her, long ago on Tara, came back to her once again: If I came to you as I did then, I would not be Spock, but someone else. And she knew that he now believed that he had conclusively proved his own hypothesis. 

"It wasn't wanting each other that made us strangers," she said helplessly. "It was--" _Your humanity_. Again her eyes burned with bitter tears. For it was his humanity that she had always believed would one day make them one. 

"Humans believe in fairy tales," he said indistinctly, his voice muffled against her. Slowly, wearily, he turned on his back, took one of her hands and pressed it briefly to his lips. "Shadows are real, and men are shadows, and this--harrowing experience that we have just weathered together is supposed to be a kind of self-creation." 

"Cynicism doesn't suit you, my love," she answered with attempted lightness. 

"Doesn't it?" he asked wryly. "Sarah, I have now made love to three women in my lifetime, and very shortly afterward, each of them was miserable. An odd sort of self-creation." He sighed deeply. "If I may say so." 

"But you're not whole. You're not yourself. You can't take this experience as representative--" 

"He said I'd be sorry." A small, painful smile. "He said we'd both regret this, you and I. I thought it was because he knows you better than I do. But it wasn't. He knows _me_ better than I do." 

There was no use arguing, she knew. Human though he might be, the man who lay with his head in her lap was a Vulcan born and bred, a grown-up child playing truant from himself only to come face to face with the hard facts of his own ethic--an ethic that insisted that uncontrolled emotion is unhealthy and can lead to nothing but unhappiness for all concerned. Every direct experience he had ever had with seasonless human sexuality had substantiated that ethic. He was unalterably convinced. There was no use arguing. And yet-- 

"Why did you come here tonight?" 

The look of utter longing that he gave her almost broke her heart. "I wanted you to know," he said softly, "how much I want you." 

She had expected him to answer simply _I wanted you_ , and had not been at all sure how she would reply. Even the Vulcan ethic acknowledged the reality of emotions and physical needs, and so his admission could not in itself have been lovingly used against him. But the answer he gave and the way in which he gave it told her that somewhere deep within him he knew the truth that he was not yet nearly able to understand, let alone admit--that he knew intuitively that his desire for his woman and hers for him was not a dangerous emotion to be acknowledged and controlled, but a priceless gift to be shared. And she wondered briefly if, had his humanity never been separated out, he would ever have grasped that even intuitively. 

" _Why_ did you want me to know?" she asked, knowing that he must come to it himself, but wanting to make sure that there was in fact a question to be answered. "If wanting me is illogical and therefore wrong, why was it so terribly important to you that I know it?" 

"I don't know." He moved away from her and sat up on the edge of the bed, his back toward her. "I don't know." It was only a whisper. 

"Remember that, my love," she went on softly. "And when you're whole again, make _him_ remember that you came to tell me something but you don't know why. Someday the two of you together might be able to answer that question." She was silent for a moment, hoping that he would indeed remember. Then: "Are you very tired?" He nodded, bowing his head. "Then I think it would be safe for you to share my bed, don't you?" 

Slowly he turned to look at her, obviously not sure what she meant. 

"As long as we're well-dressed," she added matter-of-factly, but unable to keep from smiling a little. "Please let's lie down. I'm not going to attack you, and all things considered, I think the two of us bedding down separately like a couple of virgins would be--highly illogical." 

The quiet smile he gave her then was so open and so vulnerable that for a moment she wondered if they were as safe as they thought they were. But a few minutes later, settled comfortably against him and within the curve of his arm, she was sure they were both far too tired to risk repeating the psychic upheaval of their earlier attempt at lovemaking. He was obviously relaxed, and his breathing was even and normal. 

Human normal. 

A chill touched her, and suddenly she was more frightened than she had ever been in her life. 

"Sarah?" 

"The synthesis," she whispered. "The rejoining. There were doubts in your mind." 

"We must attempt it," he answered quietly. "There is no other way." 

She lay still, fighting the fear. The knowledge of what had happened to him on Fornax II had come to her immediately before an emotional experience that was indeed harrowing; her mind had accepted the information, but after the first shock, her emotions had been otherwise occupied until now. His mind had transmitted the scientific facts, including the knowledge that his alter was even now at work on the last steps of the necessary research. But the research was not even _complete_? 

She could not cry, or even make a sound. His death yawned like a chasm at her feet, even more immediate to her emotions than her own and far more horrible in its implications. She had always known that he faced death often. But not like this. Not when the only alternative was a sundered half life, forever separated from self. There was no choice, and she knew it. But the research was not even complete? 

She would have known instantly if they had been en rapport, and was sure they were not. But he obviously knew that she was close to breaking, and why. Putting both arms around her, he drew her close against him, comforting her silently with his nearness. He made no attempt at empty words--did not try to tell her that everything would be all right, not to worry, or anything else that any other human might have said. But somehow his own calm, unquestioning acceptance of the necessity of his rejoining with his alter seemed to radiate outwards until she was enveloped by it and soothed at the deepest levels of her being. It was not telepathy, she was sure. Mental contact was still almost impossible for them. The only similar experience she could remember had taken place long ago, when she had fallen asleep in a dark, airtight cave on a planet decimated by an atomic explosion--fallen asleep at last because an almost total stranger had been there too, close by, not even touching her, but reassuring her by his presence that, frightened as she was, she was not alone. Only half of him was here with her now. But for these few moments at least, half of him was more than enough. 

Relaxed now, almost drowsy in spite of herself, she asked, "Why did you do this?" Her hand moved, touching his arm where it encircled her still. 

His faint sigh lightly stirred her hair. "I have no logical explanation. Does that please you?" 

_Yes._ But she did not answer aloud. Aloud she said: "Remember this too, then." She closed her eyes, intending only to rest them after a long, long day. But when the moment was over, dawn was breaking outside the window. She was alone in bed, and a slim figure in Starfleet blue stood between her and the light, looking down at her as she awoke. 

She sat up, unable to see him clearly because the light from the window was behind him. For a moment the nightmare of his painful sundering seemed only that. He was at the moment simply Spock, first officer of the U.S.S _Enterprise_ , returning to duty, and she his wife. 

Recognizing the significance of what she was doing only as she did it, she raised her hand, two fingers extended, knowing that when he was whole again, he would surely remember that she had tacitly acknowledged his entirety even in its absence. 

He responded in kind, without hesitation. As their fingers touched, she whispered "Peace and long life, Spock," intensely aware of how uniquely appropriate those words were now. 

  
Temporarily weary in mind and body, the human Spock had slept lightly beside his wife for a time, and had awakened in a state of moderately strong sexual arousal. Sarah had moved away from him in sleep, and he lay still for a while, perversely convinced that somehow, someday, he would be free to take advantage of the delicious intimacy of sharing the same bed with his wife. Now the ghost of psychic impotence haunted him even as physical impotence might have haunted a non-telepathic human male; physical need to the contrary, he hadn't the heart to try again. Remembering, he experienced a psychic aftershock that very nearly demoralized him physically. Both he and Sarah, he realized in despair, were irrevocably spoiled as far as ordinary human sexuality was concerned. 

Even joined with his alter during pon farr, with his own reaction to the frenzied compulsive mating conditioned even as the Vulcan's was, he had experienced occasional intimations of the unique psycho-physical ecstasy of mind-linked sexuality freely chosen. And he knew that his alter had perceived this as well. Together, they had as yet been unable to integrate that knowledge with their common ethic, and it had remained until now a thing apart--a memory they did not avoid, but approached with nervous caution, an unsolved puzzle to which neither of them could find the key. But now he realized that they had never tried to find that key together, had always assumed that the solution for one could not be the solution for the other. 

Silently he rose and dressed, his mind trying to grasp an insight that lay, like the pre-dawn sun, just below his mental horizon. Then a memory that had lain dormant in his mind these last hours glowed and sprang to life: his alter, seated before their desk computer very nearly at the end of his Vulcan endurance, completely baffled by a totally illogical step in Exar's last notes. The human had come up behind him, glanced at the screen, and the answer was immediately apparent to him. Exar had made a leap of faith on the basis of practical results: of 346 test animals, all 346 had been successfully rejoined as the result of a particular program sequence. Exar had happened on the procedure by chance, and had been totally unable to prove why it worked. 

They had stared at the screen together, the human unable to follow all of Exar's mathematics but unalterably convinced that the results were valid, the Vulcan knowing the equations by heart, but unable to reach beyond abstractions to accept the obvious in the concrete. 

"Q.E.D.," the human had said finally. "It works because it works. Can't you _see_ that?" 

_It works because it works._

Now fully dressed, the human Spock stood by the bed, gazing down at his sleeping wife. The Vulcan had commandeered McCoy's lab, rigged a small apparatus and spent several long nights separating and rejoining half a dozen offspring of a Terran white rat and a Sagittarian weaselmouse. Each procedure had worked flawlessly, and still he was not convinced. How could the human hope to convince him on the basis of no success at all? 

And was he really convinced himself? 

_Together_ , he thought. _Together we could understand._ He did not know how he knew this. But he knew. 

_Remember that, my love. And when you're whole again, make him remember._

Sarah had awakened then, and intuitively demonstrated her awareness of Spock's entirety by offering his human self the symbolic sign of Vulcan marital unity. Leaving her at last, he deeply regretted that his alter had not had a chance to experience first-hand the depth of her commitment to them both. 

The courtyard was still dark, although dawn illuminated the sky. I-Chaya had been asleep, but opened his eyes and stared reproachfully at his master's humanity, almost as though someone were trying to play a very unfunny joke on him. 

"It's all right, old friend," Spock told him gently. "I won't trouble you much longer." And he took a deep breath, savoring the odors of home one last time. 

Behind him, the gate clicked. 

Faulty as his human telepathic abilities might be, he knew at once who had stopped dead just inside the gate, his own Vulcan mind suddenly seething with anguished confusion and that was almost horror. Their Vulcan parent/child relationship had ended forever when Spock himself became a parent. But those long years of deep mental rapport could never be completely forgotten, and Sarek's immediate presence was as palpably recognizable to Spock as the essence of home. 

For a moment his fingers tightened around his communicator. But he was not eighteen now. Even all human, he could not run this time. Yet when he turned to face his father, he could not help but back away. Sarek must not touch him, he knew. The agony in those dark eyes told him that his father had already perceived the truth, although certainly not its cause. Telepaths though Amanda and Sarah were, they were both untrained, both human. And neither of them had spent decades involved in a unique relationship with the mental configurations of the entire Spock. Only his father could sense his essence, even as he sensed Sarek's, and even without physical contact. 

Sarek's hand reached out, to comfort or to confirm his own perceptions. Spock could not tell which, and he was fairly sure that Sarek did not know either. He was more disturbed than Spock had ever seen him, and physical contact with its accompanying heightened awareness was perhaps more than he could bear. And yet, almost instinctively, he sought it. 

I-Chaya had lumbered to his feet. And now he whimpered--a moan of vicarious, quasi-intelligent empathy such as would never be heard on Earth except from a human throat. And in his concern lest the rest of the family be frightened, Spock momentarily forgot to apologize for being human. 

"Stay!" He stepped quickly to the sehlat and laid his hand on the animal's head, forgetting also that this move might well cost him his arm or even his life, remembering only that if I-Chaya screamed, two little girls could no longer be spared at least a share of the suffering he had caused by coming home. "Kroyka!" he repeated--and realized for the first time that he had been speaking in Vulcan even as he thought in English. 

And I-Chaya stayed--rigid, but silent and unmoving under his master's hand. 

Not daring to remove his hand just yet, Spock met his father's astounded gaze. "All will be well, Sarek," he said--in Vulcan, quite steadily, speaking deliberately as adult to adult. "Trust me." Then, carefully, with a silent telepathic command to the sehlat, he removed his hand and stepped away. 

Sarek dropped his outstretched hand. And then, slowly, he raised it again, palm vertical, fingers spread, his gaze still holding his son's. Silently, Spock returned the salute. 

They faced each other a moment longer, each aware that prolonging this painful confrontation would serve no logical purpose. Then, using his communicator, Spock quietly summoned temporary annihilation. 

Just before he dematerialized, he experienced an irrational urge to stay, to comfort and reassure his father as he had Sarah. But his Vulcan-bred intellect knew that Sarek did not need his comfort or his reassurance. In asking for his father's trust, he had conveyed his own certainty that he could handle the matter unassisted. And the Vulcan expression translating _All will be well_ was not empty reassurance, but a statement of significant probability. Thus he had already conveyed all the necessary information, and in addressing this father as Sarek, he had also notified him that questioning would invade the privacy of an adult. Sarek, he knew, would take no offense at this. It was Spock's right, however grave the circumstances. 

Yet once he materialized aboard the _Enterprise_ , reaction set in. He was all human, and the experiences of the last few hours had taxed him almost beyond endurance. The sight of Jim alone at the console released a flood of emotion that he could barely control, and he stepped off the platform in a daze, exhausted. 

"Are you all right?" Jim came toward him quickly. 

"It's no good," he said helplessly. "Apart, neither of us is any good." 

"I'd argue that," Jim answered quietly, "but you don't look like you're in any shape for an argument." Apprehensively: "Do you want to just stay in here for a few minutes?" 

But the touch of his hand on Spock's shoulder had already had its effect. 

"No," he answered, and suddenly he was just normally tired. His father had trusted him, even all human. Surely he could trust himself. "I'm all right, Jim. Thank you." 

"Is there anything I can do?" 

"You already have"--he smiled a little--"my friend." 

  
After he had left her, Sarah got up and stood for a moment, undecided. It was still barely dawn, and some time before the rest of the household would be up. But she could not sleep again. 

Her almost automatic offering of the two-finger touch to the human Spock had abruptly reminded her that there was another who had not shared her bed. Now she began to pace slowly up and down the room, her arms folded across her breast, unable to banish the restlessness that she could barely define. She had seen the human Spock as a separate entity, held him in her arms and been comforted by him, spent the night at his side--even touched his mind, however briefly and traumatically. But of the Vulcan she knew very little--except that he had been left alone while someone else made love to his woman. 

It didn't matter, she told herself firmly. Once the two were rejoined, it would not matter. For the entire Spock would remember this night at home as though he had been whole.... 

But he had not been whole. 

In fantasy, she saw the Vulcan in his quarters, resting briefly on his bed. The human, she suspected, had slept little at her side, for he had left the ship at midday, not at evening. It was only now the middle of the evening on the _Enterprise_ , and the Vulcan might well be tired from his work. And if he rested, tired in mind and body, what unwelcome thoughts and dangerous visions might overtake his mind? 

She stood still in the middle of the room, eyes closed, arms now at her sides. And it came to her that her fantasy was a shade too real to be only that. 

Her telepathic powers were largely untested and wholly untrained, and she knew from recent painful experience with the human that the channels established through the bonding link would be almost totally useless in reaching his alter as well. But she had always been sure that the telepathic abilities of the entire Spock were well equal to those of a full Vulcan, erratic though his control might be. Both of his parents were highly sensitive telepaths, and if Spock's hereditary talents were unreliable in his human half, they might well reside largely in the Vulcan. 

A small stab of fear shot through her, a fleeting suspicion that she might be hallucinating, and that the vivid certainty that she was now in at least partial contact with Spock's Vulcan mind was simply wishful thinking. There were no visual images, and nothing even approximating verbal communication was taking place. Yet somehow he was there in her mind--infinitely more alien than his human alter, and yet somehow more familiar. 

She had never had occasion to observe Spock on duty aboard the _Enterprise_ since she had become his wife, and had wondered more than once how a person with so many inner conflicts could also be the ultra-efficient scientist and exemplary officer that his reputation signified. But now she understood. The human's mind was quick and curious, frequently exhibiting an acute awareness of the illogical and often humorous subtleties of life--an awareness that delighted her whenever she perceived it. But the human aspects of Spock's intellect were essentially undisciplined and often as unreliable as his psi powers--almost like the mind of a child prodigy who has never quite been taken seriously, even by himself. 

The mind with which she was now in tenuous but undeniable contact was to the human's as tempered steel is to quicksilver--shining with the same vital brilliance, but disciplined, balanced, possessed of an alien serenity that was unalterably non-human. Motivations aside, it had been necessary for the human to hold her in his arms in order to comfort and support her emotionally. But the entire Spock, a virtual stranger, had been able to reach out mentally to steady and reassure her during their first night on Tara because of the resources of his Vulcan nature--even as his Vulcan mind steadied and reassured her now, across thousands of miles of space. 

Awed and a little humbled, she was able to grasp through this temporary contact that the Vulcan, even as he played chess with Jim earlier and then returned to his work at the computer, had been able to evaluate and examine the bizarre, potentially disastrous sexual triangle in which he found himself an unwilling observer/participant--evaluate it as though it were an explosive device set to blow his personal universe to nothingness. The same literally superhuman objectivity that had helped to make him the best first officer in the fleet--the Vulcan control that was sometimes unreliable even in the entire Spock--now took him inexorably outside and beyond his own emotional involvement even as it would have abstracted the entire Spock intellectually from the fear of his own death had there been a murderous time bomb embedded deep in the core of the _Enterprise_ , and he the only one capable of deactivating it. 

The Vulcan did not deny his emotional involvement even to himself. Sarah might have called it jealousy, as his alter had. But no one word could begin to describe his soul-shattering sense of loneliness, of hurt, even of betrayal. Yet side by side with it remained his steadfast refusal to allow his emotions to rule his thoughts, much less his actions. Reason told him that his wife's lover was Spock, even as he was, and a lifetime of discipline enabled him to believe. 

Yet she felt a great sense of relief that she had been able to reach him. Even though the contact was tenuous, she perceived that his awareness of it and of her reasons for wanting it had strengthened their bond immeasurably. For a moment it seemed that she could almost see him--that he spoke and she could almost hear. A gentle voice, and deeply tender. 

She literally held her breath--even though she knew that any sound she might make would have no effect on her ability to hear the voice that spoke to her now without sound, but with infinite love. 

_My Sarah, on Vulcan there is time for everything. Even for us._

And the tenuous link threaded away and dissolved--not painfully, as with the human, but with the equivalent of a wistful sigh. 

She raised her head then and wiped away her tears, realizing for the first time that the crimsoning sun had smoothed away the night, and that somewhere a bird was calling, perhaps to its mate. 

  
Several days later, she received a brief message. It was a printout, delivered by Starfleet messenger--a piece of paper that she could hold in her hands and reread again and again. 

It contained only four words: _I am once again_.  



	6. Human Voices

  


# HUMAN VOICES

It seemed to Jill that of all the people she knew, the two who were hardest to deal with at the same time were her sister and Charlie Harris. 

It was hot in the courtyard, for the sun had barely dropped below the roof of the house and it was still a long time until evening. It had been a rather stupid idea, she realized, for her and Charlie to practice their weaponless hand-to-hand combat techniques outside before sunset. Even though she had lived on Vulcan for two-thirds of her twelve years and Charlie for all of his, human kids at the Federation school still popped over from heat exhaustion occasionally. If her mother or Amanda were home, one of them would probably send them inside, or down to the greenhouse to work on their chess game. 

But nobody else was home except T'Ara, who was playing the piano just inside the open window a few meters away. As Jill and Charlie circled one another warily, she knew that her sister was working on a new piece, and that the next step was going to be more than Jill could handle at the moment, when she had to concentrate on Charlie and not her telepathic shields. T'Ara had already sight-read the piece forward once, played it backwards once, then played it forward from memory. That had been relatively easy to shut out, even though T'Ara had let her own shields slip as she became engrossed in the music. What was really hard to handle was the job that T'Ara was now doing on the sonatina, pulling out all the sixteenth notes to see what kind of a melody they would make all by themselves.... 

"You're telegraphing, Charlie," Jill said aloud, remembering what J.T. had told her about watching the eyes. Then, aside to her sister: "Stop it, shadow. You're not shielding at all." 

T'Ara glanced at her briefly, apologetically, and the contact between them blanked. 

Jill's concentration returned to Charlie, who was starting to really sweat, his sandy hair matted to his forehead. He was bigger and stronger than she was, but he couldn't seem to figure out what she was going to do next. She had already dumped him twice. Now she moved in quickly, faster than he could respond, and dumped him for the third time. He hit the ground hard, rolled, and came to his feet puffing a little. 

"Let's quit," he said, giving her a look that reminded her of the way he used to say _You're just a girl_ until she'd made him stop saying it. "You want to work on the game for a while?" 

"All right." She was sweating herself, and now she rubbed her arm across her forehead, then ran her hand under her hair in the back, flipping the long fair mantle away from her neck for a moment. "T'Ara, Mother's on duty until tomorrow morning. Tell Amanda where I am when she gets home, okay?" 

T'Ara raised her eyes briefly from the piano keys, where she was now patterning the eighth notes. She did not answer aloud, and was still thoroughly screening her mind. Her green eyes were abstracted, but she nodded; obviously she had heard them, even though she had not seemed to be listening. 

They went out the gate, Charlie still glowering. Today might be a total loss, and not only because she had dumped him. As they started down the hill to the greenhouse in silence, she tried to remember how long it had been since they had really been best friends like they used to be. 

When she had come to Vulcan eight years ago, she had not been able to play with other offworld children at first. Their voices shouted, their bodies jostled, and their minds all seemed to scream at her at once. It was only after her mother had helped her to shield them out that she had been able to tolerate the idea of going to school. 

One day about that time, when she was sitting alone on the playground, just watching, a little boy her own age had left the group, come over to where she was sitting, squatted down and held out his hand. "You can play too," he had said, smiling at her. She had taken his hand and gone back with him, and that had been the first day of her belonging. 

Later she had found out that his father was a colleague of her mother's at the Science Academy hospital. For a while, the two families had been friends, and her friendship with Charlie had become closer because of it. But then something about their families had changed. She had asked her mother why, and that had been the first and only time in her life that her mother had not answered a question of hers directly. 

"Why do you call her 'shadow'?" The same little boy, half grown now, was looking at her sideways as they walked. His blue eyes were puzzled, faintly hostile, even though he was affecting a nonchalant grin. More and more lately, it was as though most of what she said and did was alien to him. 

"Because she is. Mine." 

"Why don't you tell her to get lost?" Idly, as though he really didn't care. 

But she was used to that. He acted as though he didn't care about anything lately except winning games and adding to his collection of words for "copulation" from every known language. Yet she knew that he did care that something was going wrong with their friendship, cared as much as she did. She had been taught to control her telepathic powers, but she could not help sensing the feelings of those she was close to. And she had been close to Charlie for much too long to be able to shut him out completely. 

He was looking at her sideways again, and she realized that she had not answered his question: Why don't you tell her to get lost? How to answer? Mother had told her that if she didn't want T'Ara following her around, Mother or Sarek would do something about it. Her answer then had been "It's okay." 

Her answer now was "I don't know." 

Both answers were true. 

  
The chess game had been going on for several weeks. They were both determined to win it. 

She was always surprised at how cool it was in the greenhouse. Her mother had been surprised when she mentioned that once. On Earth, apparently, the greenhouse would have seemed hot. But since she had never been to Earth, it was hard to imagine a place where this would seem hot. Tall plants, greener than any she had ever seen, formed the first row on all four sides of the room; it was almost like walking around in a cool green basket, its bottom spattered with color except for the aisles. Only one of the flower beds, next to the aisle where their game was set up, looked empty. The evening before, she and T'Ara and Amanda had planted a variety of Earthborn seeds there and then added water; Amanda never used chemicals on anything growing. Now the rectangular bed lay wet and black, blacker than any stretch of ground that she had ever seen. 

Remembering what Amanda had called it, she giggled as she sat down next to the chessboard. "Guess what that's called." 

Charlie, who had stretched out half reclining opposite her, his back to the empty flower bed, glanced over his shoulder. "I give up." Idly, as though it didn't matter to anybody as grown-up as he thought he was. 

"Mud." She could barely keep from giggling again. 

Charlie's mouth twitched. He was trying really hard, but she knew him too well. There had been a time when they had been able to send each other into helpless laughter with new words like "potato" and "bubblegum." 

"Mud?" His voice cracked on the word, and that did it. It was like old times, she told herself even as they broke up together, laughing helplessly. But it didn't last long, just as she knew it wouldn't. It never did anymore. 

As they settled down to the game again, she with her knees pulled up and her chin resting on them, he reclining on his elbow next to the empty flower bed, he asked, "Doesn't the old man care if you give her a nickname?" 

Why did almost everything he said lately sound so...hard? 

"He's not a 'man,'" she answered patiently, making a chess move. "And it's not a nickname. I don't capitalize 'shadow' in my mind." Then, hoping for something she couldn't define: "He even calls her 'small' once in a while." 

No use. Charlie stirred uneasily, glancing at her and then away. "You sound just like them sometimes." 

He seemed to use "them" an awful lot lately. 

"That's dumb," she said, trying not to sound like she was getting mad at him. She didn't want to get mad at him. "No Vulcan would ever say 'I don't capitalize it in my mind.'" 

"Well, _you_ sound dumb lately." He looked up for a moment, directly at her, and she realized for the first time that the things she said these days sounded as unfamiliar to him as the things he said sounded to her. She looked back at him silently, not knowing what to say. And he looked away. 

They played in silence for a while, and then he asked "Does she ever talk?" His tone was the same as it had been when he had asked _Doesn't the old man...._

Determined to ignore it, she imagined Charlie trying to decompress one of T'Ara's sentences, and smiled a little. 

The silence lasted a moment longer. Then Charlie said softly: "My dad says they aren't really much like us at all. He says they don't even do it like we do." 

With her chin still on her knees, she raised her eyes to his. They had been this route before, but never like this. Nowhere near like this. "Or maybe we just don't do it like they do, huh?" Some small part of her listened to her own voice and thought: _I sound like I don't even like him anymore._

"You think I'm lying?" His turn to smile a little. 

"No," she answered calmly. She got up then, knowing that she could not stand one more conversation like this, or one more line of this one. "I think you're sick." The chess board flew into the air, lifted quickly, lightly by the toe of her sandal--scattering their game over the spatters of color, over the mud, some of the pieces even flying through the tall green plants that lined the room. "Go home, Charlie. I have to practice." She turned and started for the door, not wanting to look back. 

"Why'd you do that? His voice cracked again on the last word, and she turned reluctantly, knowing that she had to. 

"And don't come back." But it wasn't ending now, she knew. It had started to end a long time ago. Maybe a year. Maybe longer. She couldn't even remember when it wasn't starting to end. "I don't like being with you anymore. You're father's a stupid man, and you're getting to think just like he does." _How do I know how his father thinks?_ she wondered, beginning to feel a little sick. _I hardly ever see his father._ And she tensed, wondering for the first time if Charlie might be mad enough to want to fight with her again, this time for real. 

He lay half reclining on his elbow, again smiling a little as he had when he asked _You think I'm lying?_. And when he spoke, it was for real. 

"Not stupid enough to fuck animals." The verb was a Rigellian obscenity with an analogue in almost every known language. It was the newest addition to his collection. 

Because she was standing and he reclining, she literally got the drop on him before he realized she was there. She landed squarely on his midsection, and heard the air go out of his lungs. Odd noise. Like something exploding. 

It seemed that she couldn't see quite clearly; everything was a little blurred, and there was something pounding rhythmically inside her head. She seemed to be a lot stronger than she usually was, and a lot faster. In an instant she had rolled him over, pinning one arm beneath him and twisting the other behind his back, holding his wrist there with one of her hands while her other hand grasped him by the hair. The mud that they had laughed at together made a pleasant sound as she rubbed his face in it, hard. She kept on doing it, harder now, thinking how nice it sounded and wondering how soon she would have to stop so that he could start breathing again. The mud was spattering all over her hair now, and her tunic. But she could clean that up later, she decided. 

He had struggled a little at first, but he was barely struggling now. Couldn't get his breath, she supposed. Reluctantly, she let go and sprang away from him. 

He was up on his hands and knees now, choking, spitting out mud, gasping for air, choking again, spitting out more mud. She backed away, toward the side of the room opposite the door. She wanted him out the door, but she didn't particularly want to be in his way while he was getting there. 

Breathing hard, still on hands and knees, he turned his head to look at her. "You're cr-- crazy!" His voice sounded funny, as though it had permanently cracked. He began to get to his feet, and she moved a little farther away from him. 

"Sure I am." Her voice sounded funny too, she noticed. It was so calm, as though there were nothing pounding inside her head at all. "Bye, Charlie." 

He was on his feet now, but he didn't seem to be going to want to fight her after all. Slowly he backed away from her toward the door. _Watch the eyes_ , J.T. had said. But there was nothing in his eyes except fear. 

He stood still for a moment more, and it came to her that he thought she was going to attack him again if he turned his back. 

"Go home," she said quietly. "And don't come back here. Ever." 

A moment more of hesitation, and then he cut and ran for the door, slamming it behind him. 

In the silence, she realized that something was happening to her arms. 

She put her hands in the pockets of her tunic and straightened her arms against the shaking. Her legs were starting to shake too. The whole place was a mess, mud and chessmen all over the floor, mud even on some of the flowers. She would come back and clean it up later. After she stopped shaking. 

Slowly she went toward the door. 

But how would she get the mud off the flowers? 

There was a chessman directly in front of her on the floor, between her and the door. Savagely, violently, she kicked it--sideways, out of her way, along the aisle that ran between the translucent greenhouse wall and the tall green plants. The chessman skipped up the aisle, skipping and skimming along the floor, and she watched it go, skipping and skimming up the aisle away from her, coming to rest finally near the small figure who sat with her arms around her knees, hidden from the center of the room by the tall green plants that were only a few shades darker than her eyes. 

_That's just the way Mother sits_ , Jill thought abstractedly, _when she's sitting on the floor_. She began to walk slowly up the aisle, thinking, _I do it too. I never noticed that she does it, though_. And she thought, _Somebody's going to cry. It must be me. She never cries_. And she thought, _WHY DIDN'T I KNOW SHE WAS HERE?_

"Why are you shielding?" she asked aloud. And then she remembered. 

Her sister's face was impassive, but her eyes looked twice as big as they usually did. 

Leaning over, Jill took her hand and pulled her to her feet, leading her back toward the door. At the moment, nothing in the universe was as important as getting T'Ara out of that greenhouse. It didn't make much sense. But then, nothing was making much sense right now. 

  
The sun had dropped completely behind the house as they began to climb the hill together, T'Ara's hand still in hers. The wind was up too, blowing her hair and T'Ara's back and then forward and then from side to side; back like a jet-black plume and another sun-bleached almost white, then forward and to the side, straggling across their faces and into their eyes. Red shadows reached down the hill, across the Vulcan garden. Here, at least, there was no mud on the flowers.... 

"Didn't that bother you at all, shadow?" 

She looked over at the child--this child-sister now barely a head shorter than she was. T'Ara looked back, her eyebrows rising slightly. When she had nothing to say, she invariably said nothing. _She does it physically_ , her mother had explained once. _She's not holding anything back, the way you and I would have to. She makes the feelings go away. That's why she has to be with Sarek most of the time until she's grown up. He's teaching her how to control...._

They were halfway up the hill before T'Ara spoke. 

"Why do you want me to want to show him what he is?" she asked softly--so softly that Jill could barely hear her over the hot, dry wind. "You did that for both of us." 

_I'm the one_ , Jill thought, her throat beginning to ache. _I'm the one who's going to cry._ She dropped T'Ara's hand and sat down beside the path, crossed her legs lotus-like and put her hands on her ankles, leaning forward slightly. Her chest was starting to ache too. She let go of her ankle with one hand and struck the fist against her knee. "Damn!" But it didn't help. Whatever it was that had made her stronger than Charlie was gone now. The pounding in her head had stopped too, but everything inside the rest of her seemed to be falling apart at the same time. Folding her arms across her chest, she began to rock back and forth slightly, her head bent. "It's not fair!" It seemed that she could feel Spock's hand on her hair, that she could almost hear his voice in a sweet waking dream: "Goodnight, Jill Kirk. Sleep well." The tears seemed to be everywhere, even in her mouth, and no matter how she hugged herself and rocked, the pain just got worse. "It's not fair it's not fair it's not _fair_...." 

Dimly she realized that T'Ara was kneeling in front of her, and that she was not shielding anymore. She was partially controlling and yet not completely; the pain she felt was not hers, but her sister's. Jill felt the child's hand on the side of her head, fingers reaching out, but not far enough. Because T'Ara was not shielding now, it was clear what she was trying to do, although Jill could not begin to understand why at any level that she could have verbalized. It was clear that T'Ara's hands were not large enough, her fingers not long enough to reach the points that she seemed to be able to sense were there without knowing they were there. She was eight years old, and as their mother had once remarked, her bone structure was her grandmother's. She knew almost instinctively what it was that she so desperately wanted to do, but she was physically unable to do it. 

Her frustration was so intense that Jill sobbed once in sympathy, her sister's pain compounding hers. Then, before Jill could raise her head and beg her to spare herself, T'Ara leaned her forehead against her sister's temple and the circuit she had been trying so desperately to establish was complete. 

In her one contact with Spock four years before, Jill had learned for the first time what it was like to communicate with a highly skilled telepath. The experience had been painful because of the content; she had been unintentionally violating T'Ara's mental privacy and threatening her very identity, and that realization had horrified and frightened her in spite of Spock's reassurance and comfort. But she had also been intensely aware of how very good he was at what he was doing, how well he had learned the skills he was now called upon to use: communicating with her without violating her privacy. It awed her whenever she remembered it, and she had often thought that she would never be that good, that she could never hope to learn all that he had learned of the art he practiced. 

T'Ara had never learned any of it. And yet she practiced the telepath's art as though she had been born knowing it. 

Where Spock's mind had run, surefooted, his daughter's flew as though on wings made of air and sunlight. Involuntarily touching T'Ara's childish memories and then veering quickly away from them, Jill understood instantly that Sarek already knew exactly what the child was capable of, but had not attempted to instruct or train her in the art of the healer because he believed that she was still too young; he had, in fact, told T'Ara as much in words spoken aloud. That memory was clear enough for Jill to perceive it before she could retreat. But whether she was old enough or not, whether she was trained or not, was of no concern to T'Ara at the moment. She was concerned only with the banishing the almost unendurable agony of the sister she loved. 

And banish it she did, leaving Jill with a verbal message: _He cannot defile your memories unless you let him._ The English "defile" was not in T'Ara's conscious vocabulary. Yet the message was there. 

Jill's first coherent thought was _The flowers'll be fine._ T'Ara's forehead still rested against her temple, although the child's hand had fallen to her side. Jill thought tiredly, _Can I give you a hug, just this once?_ T'Ara allowed that the experience would be pleasant, put her arms lightly around Jill's waist, and got hugged as she had never been except by her mother. They remained so for a moment, the hot Vulcan wind blowing their hair around their shoulders, mingling the light with the dark. 

As they approached the house a few minutes later, again hand in hand, Jill said quietly, "You won't tell Mother what he said." It was not a question. 

"Indeed," T'Ara agreed, impassive. "That would be most illogical." 

  
After T'Ara was in bed, Jill decided that she would share her Hollowbox with Amanda this evening. J.T. had sent it to her several months ago, and she had watched the holo several times alone. Amanda was almost as good company as Mother was, and she felt like she wanted somebody's good company tonight. 

She sat on her bed, looking down at the outside of the small box in her lap. "Hollowbox," she knew now, was something called a brand name; J.T. had explained about brand names as soon as he realized she had no idea what they were. The box was indeed hollow, with all the transceivers hidden in the inside wall; you could even keep something in it if you wanted to. But there were also other manufacturers who expanded embrittled antique films into holograms. The process had once been an art form, J.T. had told her. But in the past two decades "hollowing" films had become Big Business--a term he had also had to explain. The one she held in her hands, though, was about thirty or forty years old--itself almost an antique.HOLLOWBOX #12 The Red Shoes 1948, O.C. 

"I feel so dumb," she had told him once on a tape, before she had the Hollowbox. "It takes so much time to stay in shape, and I don't even want to be a ballerina. But it feels so great doing it. Do you think I ought to get another hobby and quit wasting my time? Once I get to PREPDIV, I won't have time for kid stuff like this." 

In his answering tape, he had said: "What makes you think Starfleet cadets all have to jog or shoot baskets for exercise? And"--grinning now--"I have it from an unimpeachable source that on Vulcan there's time enough for everything." She had liked the bit about being a Starfleet cadet. PREPDIV wasn't exactly the Academy, after all. Just almost. But he had seemed tired and preoccupied on that tape, not like himself at all. Since he had been at Operations, you never could tell what kind of a mood he'd be in when he taped. Sometimes he'd talk about the boat for minutes on end, and you could tell he was excited about having one and being near enough to the ocean to sail again. Other times, the tape wasn't even five minutes long, and he seemed to have nothing much to say. 

A few months later she had received the Hollowbox; it took forever to get anything from Earth to Vulcan that couldn't relay through subspace like a tape. She had watched the holofilm, fascinated, until the end, where the ballerina had died because she couldn't choose between her dancing and the man she loved. It was not the sadness of the ending that was disturbing; it was the idea that there was some sort of choice that had to be made, and that the ballerina had made the wrong choice because she wanted to dance instead of staying where her composer husband was living. Even more disturbing was the possibility that J.T. had been trying to tell her something when he sent her this particular holo. 

She thought about talking it over with Mother. But since it was not Mother who might be trying to tell her something she didn't want to hear, she decided to write J.T. a note about it. Peter wrote him letters all the time, he said, and he seemed to think that was nice. And somehow this wasn't the kind of thing you asked somebody on a tape. So she got a piece of paper and wrote two questions on it. 

_Why did you send me this story?_

_Why couldn't she have both?_

Then she sent it off in the mail, just like people had to do in 1948, O.C. 

Months passed, and neither of them mentioned the note when they taped. Either he had not gotten his note, or he was answering her questions in the same way she had asked them. 

Finally the answer arrived, wrapped in another sheet of paper with a flap folded over and sealed, and her name on the outside of it. (She had simply folded hers over on itself and addressed the outside.) It was a funny feeling to look at that sealed up thing and know there was no tape inside, just writing. She almost wished she had asked him on a visual after all. When she unsealed it, she could see through the paper that he had written two lines, just as she had. Turning it over, she read them. 

_Because she  loves to dance._

_Because she thought she couldn't._

Rereading the note now, she looked up at Who, who was perched on the head of the bed as usual. 

"Who," said Who. 

"That's my father," she told him, and for once Who seemed to have nothing more to say. 

Amanda seemed to enjoy the holo. But she seemed to enjoy the story about the notes even more. 

"I could like that man," she said, smiling a little. "If I ever got to see him long enough." But when Jill put the box under her arm and came over for a goodnight hug, Amanda took her hand instead. "Sit down here a minute," she said quietly. And Jill realized that she had seemed slightly preoccupied all evening, and had smiled only a little about the note from J.T. 

They were in the living room, where it was cool with the windows open now that the sun had gone down and the night breeze was coming in from the Forge. Amanda never went anywhere but the living room and the kitchen when she was over in this wing. When T'Ara had asked her why, she had said, "If I were your mother, I wouldn't want me anywhere but the living room or the kitchen unless I was here." She had lost T'Ara in the middle of it, but Jill had smiled, and she smiled now, remembering, as she dropped down at Amanda's feet. 

"Charlie's father called while you were getting the holofilm," Amanda said, still speaking quietly. For a moment Jill felt as though she were going to be sick right there on the floor, but the moment passed. She was already aware that T'Ara had left something in her mind for later, much like a long-lasting medicine. "He says there's some kind of a grainy residue in Charlie's nose and throat that his father can't identify." 

_I bet he can't._ But she did not say it aloud. 

"Is that funny?" Amanda asked, frowning a little. 

"Not very." 

"Then why did you smile?" 

Jill looked back at her, not smiling, not answering. 

After a moment of thoughtful silence, Amanda went on slowly. "Charlie won't tell him what it is. He seems upset, but he won't tell his parents why. Do you know why?" 

"Yes." 

"Will you tell me?" 

"No." She answered in the same quiet tone that Amanda had used when she asked the question. 

"Why?" 

"I don't want you to hear what he said." Kneeling up, she laid her hand on Amanda's where it rested on the arm of her chair. She realized that Amanda was having a very hard time trying to keep from reading her, so she shielded carefully, as T'Rue had taught her to do. But she did not remove her hand. 

"Hear?" They looked at one another for a long moment, and then it seemed to Jill that Amanda's eyes began to shine just a little. It could have been tears. Or something else. She couldn't tell. "You"--she pointed at Jill--"don't want _me_...?" Slowly she pointed back at herself. 

"It's okay." Jill patted her hand. "He won't say it anymore. Not around here, anyway." 

"Was it about your mother," Amanda asked almost casually, "or about Spock?" Still with that funny brightness in her eyes. 

_Damn._ Jill dropped back on her heels. She should have known better. "Both. But I'm not going to tell you what he said." 

"All right." 

Jill stared. 

"I'd rather you told me what the grainy substance in his throat is," Amanda said, again almost casually. 

"I squshed his face in your flower bed." For a moment she thought Amanda's face twitched, but she could have imagined it. "It didn't hurt him." 

"You overpowered him?" Amanda asked faintly. 

"I surprised him. Otherwise he's almost too big." 

Amanda stared now, as though she were trying to get a picture in her mind of what had happened. Then, suddenly, she leaned forward and spoke quickly, her voice hushed. "T'Ara wasn't there, was she?" 

"She heard it. She was hiding." 

"Oh, Jill." It was only a whisper. Slowly, Amanda sat back in her chair. "Why didn't you know she was there?" 

For the first time since Amanda had begun the conversation, Jill felt a slight wave of nausea. Again, the moment passed. "I told her to shield before Charlie and I went down to play chess. She was doing that thing they...." _They._ "She was doing that thing Vulcans can do with the notes." 

Amanda smiled faintly, almost painfully. "Which one?" 

"Pulling out the ones that are alike." 

Amanda sighed. "Be grateful you weren't sitting next to her at a concert while she was doing that. Did she have to control?" 

"Oh, sure. But it wasn't hurting her. She wasn't fighting anything. You know." Amanda nodded. "Do you have to tell Mother about this?" 

Amanda rose, pulled Jill to her feet, and hugged her goodnight. 

"You know I do. If I were she and I didn't tell me, I'd never forgive me. Would you?" 

  
Sarah realized that she was clenching her teeth, and forced herself to relax. 

It was barely dawn, but she had been on duty all night and part of the previous day. As long as she was healthy, she told herself, it was better this way. Exhausted, she could fall into bed and not dream. Or think. 

But now this. If Amanda were not here with her, Jill would have had no one. Sitting on the broad windowsill in Amanda's bedroom, she looked out at the dawn and found that she was clenching her teeth again as a long-forgotten quotation came to her mind. 

"'Till human voices wake us, and we drown,'" she said aloud. 

"But she didn't." 

Sarah looked around then, and smiled. But they did have Amanda.... 

"Somebody must be doing something right," Amanda went on affectionately. And Sarah heard a faint echo across the years: _You think too much about making mistakes._

"There must have been some reaction," she said. "Are you sure she's all right?" 

"Absolutely. The only thing that bothered her was that T'Ara heard it all, but she had that in perspective too. If you'd seen her, you wouldn't ask." 

"I wonder if T'Ara helped her." 

"I don't see how she could have. Her hands are too small." 

"I know. But...." Sarah turned to look out of the window again. There must have been some reaction. There must have been. 

"I'd give a lot to know," Amanda said quietly, "exactly what he said." 

"I know what he said." 

She heard a startled motion from the bed, where Amanda sat propped up against her pillows, still wearing her robe from the night she had spent in the other wing of the house. Sarah did not look around, and after a moment she began to speak, wondering at the lack of emotion in her voice. 

"His father was on staff in H.O. when I came back to the Academy after Tara. He was very helpful to me while I was catching up. I couldn't sense any of his feelings. He's all closed up. But he was pleasant and helpful and I liked him. I thought we were friends. One night we both worked late, and I found out what his idea of friendship is. He told me exactly what kind of comfort and solace he thought I needed with my husband away so much. I'm afraid I put the man down rather badly. We had words. It got very, very unpleasant. Charles is a brilliant man, but to him anything not human is an animal." 

Silence. She knew it must be obvious to her listener that the story was not finished. 

"I played God, Amanda. I could not stand to think of that man treating our patients or...." For the first time, her voice faltered. "...Or their babies. I told him if he didn't resign immediately, I'd bring charges against him." 

"My dear, there is no such thing as sexual harassment on this planet." 

"There is now." Silence. "T'Loreth would have believed me. He knew that." 

"That's why he went to Salk, then," Amanda said softly, incredulously. "Why in the universe does he want to stay on Vulcan?" 

"Credit balance. His wife is a Federation translator. She freelances at all the embassies. It's extremely lucrative, I understand." 

"Why would he let Charlie continue to associate with Jill?" 

"I like to think it's for the same reason I do. Did. He wanted them to stay innocent. Ironic, isn't it?" Sarah got up from the windowsill and walked partway across the room, pausing at the foot of the bed, her head tilted slightly sideways. "What was it she did with his face?" 

"Squshed it. In the flower bed." 

"Ah." It was almost a sigh. "And--um--you forgot to tell her that squshing isn't ladylike?" 

Amanda smiled a little. "That's it. I forgot. I'll have to remember to tell her that." Still smiling. "Sometime." 

Sarah nodded, but her answering smile was clouded. Slowly she moved to sit on the edge of the bed. "I need to talk to you. About Spock. Are you very tired?" Amanda held out her hand, and then flinched involuntarily as Sarah laid hers in it. 

"Sarah, your hand is like ice!" 

"I'm scared." It was only a whisper. "I've been through an atomic explosion and an attempted rape, and I've never been this scared in my life. _Why is it taking this long?_ He's been gone almost a year." 

Amanda did not answer immediately, and Sarah realized that she was contemplating asking a question that she thought she should not ask. Then, carefully: "How much can you tell me about this--this disintegration that he went through two years ago?" 

"Only that it happened. Sarek knows. He saw...Spock when he came home...by himself." After all this time, it was still like some unbelievable horror story. "You're linked to Sarek. You're together most of the time. You must know everything he knows about it. He investigated it, didn't he?" Amanda nodded, tight-lipped. "There's really not much more that I can tell you. He was two people for almost a month. It was an infinite diversity that he could not rejoice in." She looked down at her hand, clutching Amanda's, and loosened her grip. "Both parts of him were suffering so. They just couldn't...." Her voice trailed off. 

"And you ask me," Amanda said softly, "why he's been gone so long. Surely you know that the physical reintegration was only--" 

"A patch job." Sarah shuddered. "But this--this kolinahr sounds so-- How can it help him to be gutted like that?" 

"My dear, I don't think you've been listening to Sarek. Achieving kolinahr is only the first half of the process. It's a little like--" She hesitated. 

"Go on." Sarah smiled thinly. "If a metaphor will do it, then use one. I can take it." 

"Centuries ago, on Earth, when furniture was made by real people out of real wood instead of by computers out of God knows what, they used to strip down to the bare--I'm sorry, but you said--" 

"Go on." 

"They used to do that when they wanted to refinish a valuable piece. It was the only way to preserve the integrity of the original. The alternative was simply layering on more finish over what was already there, until you couldn't see the beauty of the original anymore. They stripped it, and then they sealed it, and then spent days, sometimes weeks, putting on the new finish so that the wood would show through but still be protected." Amanda paused. "Do you think he wasn't in his right mind when he went there?" 

"Oh, he knew what he was doing. But if he hadn't lost Jim so soon after--the other thing, I think it might have been a lot different for him." 

"I think you're right. Do you think Jim realized what was going to happen to Spock?" 

"Oh, no. It was too soon. Everybody still thought he was fine." Sarah rose and began to pace. "I keep going over and over it. What could Spock have done differently, what could Jim have done differently, what could I have done differently. I keep coming up with the same answers. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing." 

"Sarah, stop that pacing, will you _please_?" Amanda held out both hands this time, and Sarah returned to sit next to her on the edge of the bed. "Listen to me, now. The kolinahr is a centuries-old ritual, dating back to the days when Vulcans thought that purging all emotions was the high road to logical thinking. You know enough history to know what a tragic mistake that was." Sarah nodded. "Emotions are to be controlled, not purged or repressed. But sometimes there comes a time when a person has to...start over from scratch." 

"It all sounds a little like shock treatment to me. Or maybe a lobotomy?" 

Amanda was silent, gazing at her sadly. Then: "You just don't trust any of this, do you?" 

"I don't _understand_ it, Amanda! You can talk all you want to about refinishing fine furniture, but Spock isn't a piece of wood!" They looked at one another in silence for a moment, and then Sarah sighed. "All right. I asked for it. But what if something goes wrong before they get him...refinished?" 

"Such as?" 

"I don't know! The first part of it just seems so--mutilating." 

"T'Sai couldn't have done anything for him without kolinahr. It just has to happen first." 

"I'm not sure," Sarah said carefully, "that I think T'Sai can do all that much for him anyway. I met her once. It was a conference on the psychic and telepathic problems of Vulcan/human children. She was supposed to be the expert on therapeutic possibilities. She contributed very little, nothing of value. I had the impression that she doesn't like the idea of half human hybrids." 

"You sensed her feelings?" 

"No," Sarah admitted reluctantly. "She was closed. I couldn't sense anything. It was just a hunch I had about her." 

"No one else can do what she does. She's the best therapeutic telepath on this planet. Spock knows that. Sarek knows it. And she's had a great deal of success with this procedure." 

"On full Vulcans." Sarah stood up again, but this time she did not pace. Walking to the window, she stood looking out at the red-gold dawn. "There was a laboratory session at the conference. One-way mirrors, so we could observe the children playing without their knowing it. I happened to look at T'Sai while we were in there. She was looking through that mirror at those kids, and there wasn't any expression on her face at all. But there was something in her eyes. It was as though she were on Earth, in a petting zoo, looking at the baby...animals." 

After a moment, Amanda said softly, "Now you're beginning to scare _me_." Then she shook her head. "Spock would perceive that in her. The rapport is extremely close. She couldn't hide it from him. And if she couldn't hide it, she couldn't use it. His mind would flinch away. Defend itself. It's instinctive." 

"But what if something happened--something she could use without either of them realizing that was what she was doing? That's what prejudiced people do. They _use_ things to justify their actions, and then they can say 'I did the best I could _but_.' Fill in the blank." 

"Spock would know what she was up to. She couldn't hide anything from him." 

"Amanda, Spock doesn't think like that! If he were confused or distracted by what was happening--" She covered her face with her hands. "I sound just like one of my own patients. What if the GS fails, what if the baby this, what if the baby that." She dropped her hands. "He was gone for four years the first time, and I never worried like this. When he went back split in half and I didn't hear anything for days, I didn't worry like this." 

"Do you know why?" 

"I don't _know_ why. I _feel_ why. It was because he was with people who love him." She sighed. "God, I'm so tired I'm not even making sense. A whole galaxy full of unknown dangers and I'm worried about one beautiful Vulcan bitch who talked about those babies as though their 'human blood' was some kind of dirty water. Maybe I'm the one who needs a therapist." 

"You're so tired." Amanda got up, came to her and put her arm around her, guiding her toward the bedroom door. "It's this thing with Jill and T'Ara. I know how you feel, but if they can survive Charlie, maybe we can too." 

Sarah paused and looked directly at her. "Do you think Charles Harris, M.D. and his darling little boy are the only ones with that problem?" 

"Of course not. I've never met T'Sai, and I trust your instincts about her. But barring some very unnatural disaster, I think Spock is quite capable of psyching out a bigot. Even now. After all, he's had lots of practice." Amanda squeezed her arm. "You're exhausted. Why don't you take some time off? T'Loreth wouldn't mind, and I'm sure the girls would love it." 

"I can't do it this tenday. Maybe next." 

"Sarah--" Amanda hesitated. "Jill talked to me about her father last night. About a holofilm he sent her, and how she got a wrong message, and how he straightened it all out. It was quite a story. If you'd been there, she would have told it to you." When Sarah simply stared at her, she went on gently, "I'm supposed to set up a three-day seminar on polyphony and tak-sheen at the Academy of Music sometime this season. It'll be an all-day-all-evening affair. I've been putting them off for some time. Shall I wait until Sarek comes back?" 

Sarah shook her head slowly. "No. I'll talk to T'Loreth tomorrow." 

"I thought you would." 

They held each other silently for a moment, and then Sarah said wryly, "If I were you and I'd been pulling this on me for as long as I have, I'd tell me to go and find somebody else besides me to take care of my k-- now, don't laugh, Amanda. I was doing just fine until you started...."  


	7. Full Circle, Parts 1 and 2

  


### Full Circle, Part 1: On Vulcan

  
_So. It has come_. 

In the dream, Sarah heard the Vulcan words as though someone else had spoken them. And yet it also seemed that she had spoken them herself. 

Seeing through his eyes and feeling all he had felt at the time he now dreamed of, she saw that there was no one there to say those words to him. He was alone in a cave on Vulcan's Forge. It was night, and it was cold--desert night cold, and winter as well. The fever that he had never felt before was relatively easy to bear, as was the low-level sexual tension in his body. But the chills tore at him until his teeth chattered. 

He was far from ShiKahr, and so he would have no l'nara to help him though his First Time. 

He would survive it, he knew. Everyone lived through the First Time, some even through the second, without giving in. Tomorrow the desert sun would bake the chills away, and he would survive. But tonight, with only a small fire in the cave, he shivered and hugged himself and fought despair. 

Alone. Even when he was not alone in body, it seemed that he was almost always alone in soul.... 

Sarah woke with a jolt, disoriented, bathed in perspiration, her body strung tight with sexual longing. Even as she realized that she was lying on the couch in her office rather than in bed at home, she thought dazedly, _But he wasn't really aroused at that age, just feverish. Why am I so--?_ Then she woke fully, and she knew. It had not been her dream, but his. 

She sat up, gently and expertly thinning the contact until it was almost nonexistent. Until he was with her physically, fully sharing her aroused state would make his even harder to bear. 

He was asleep now, she knew. Asleep aboard the _Enterprise_ , and dreaming the dream she had shared. It might even be kinder to break the contact entirely so that he could rest easier. But she could not do that even to be kind. 

With T'Pring, he had welcomed the almost immediate blanking of mental contact; he neither knew her well nor cared for her, and he was used to being alone with pain. Even now, Sarah knew that part of him wanted to spare her as much as possible until he could spare her no longer. But she also knew that he would have been devastated at an even deeper level had she left him alone in his growing anguish. This was the third Time for them, and all the lessons had been learned. 

"God, it's hot in here," she murmured half aloud, now fully awake. But the rational part of her knew that it wasn't. 

T'Loreth had finally convinced her that human physicians are not physically equal to working ten strenuous hours ten days in a row, year after year. And so she had formed the habit of lying down in her office for an hour every afternoon, usually dozing a little, always rising from the couch restored and invigorated. But she had never awakened like this before, drenched in perspiration, her pulse racing. Her office was air-conditioned, never hot. And it was not hot in her office now, she knew. 

Good thing she kept a change of clothing there. 

As she showered and changed, grateful for the amenities provided for department heads, she contemplated the dream that had not been hers alone. She had dreamed it before, long ago on Tara, when she had first shared Spock's memories as the bonding link developed between them. She had never asked him about it, knowing that the memory was a painful one. 

Normally, a young Vulcan male in the throes of his first non-lethal pon farr would seek out an older female--usually a young adult who was herself bonded but not yet physically a wife. The l'nara, the surrogate, was never the bondmate, who would have been far too vulnerable; history had taught civilized Vulcans that their desperate need to delay the inevitable would often go up in flames if the l'nara were also the bondmate. Incredible as it still was to Sarah, the l'nara was a stranger as often as she was an acquaintance. Hating what was happening to them, shamed to the core, male Vulcans accepted with totally non-human serenity the ritual of revealing to a female acquaintance or even a stranger that one was in need of psychic support--revealing it as few human males would be able to do. It was the Vulcan way, as compassionate as the ritual of koon-ut-kal-if-fee was occasionally brutal. It was also logical. If one could postpone the first Fire Time, it was logical to do so. The fact that the reason for postponement was about as illogical as Vulcans ever get was irrelevant. 

But Spock had been alone, in body as well as in soul. 

It was his last full year on his home planet, the year he had made the decision to find his destiny in Starfleet. He had often gone camping alone on the Forge, sometimes staying out for several days, thinking, planning, worrying, fearing the inevitable confrontation with his father that had, in fact, never come about because he had cut and run for Earth in order to avoid it. 

On one such excursion, his First Time had come upon him in the night. Sharing it in retrospect, Sarah was appalled at the depths of his loneliness, and wished desperately that he had not had to bear this alone. She was fully aware that only his intelligence and his memories, conscious and unconscious, of all that he knew of pon farr, had enabled him to fight his way out without help--that only his trained and disciplined mind had saved him from falling dangerously ill in that cave, far from ShiKahr. The hormonal imbalance that would later threaten his life was this time not severe enough to be lethal, and sexual tension was the least of his problems. But the fever might have been a serious threat to his life had he not been able, quite literally, to think his way out of it. 

She knew also that, still irregularly affected, he had experience yet another Time alone aboard the _Enterprise_ while serving as science officer under Christopher Pike. Then the symptoms had reversed in severity: the fever low, the sexual tension exhausting. Yet he had won again, and exulted in winning without having to reveal his plight. Pike was his idol but never his confidant; had his life depended upon self-revelation, he would have died then and there without giving the matter a second thought. Boyce, perceptive and tactful as ever, had prescribed a mild sedative and monitored the patient as unobtrusively as possible, no doubt aware of the nature of the problem but unable to determine its cause. And then, finally, Spock was well again, silently rejoicing, hoping against hope that he would be spared his Vulcan destiny, until the first Fire Time dashed that hope forever. 

But then he had not been alone. The l'nara who would have done him no good anyway was not with him. But someone else was. 

_And Jill was afraid I might try to break that up_ , Sarah thought with deep affection, reliving now a memory that was her own: Jim smiling suddenly and saying _It was...something of an anomaly_ as he thought of Spock's reaction on finding him alive.... 

She was due in a meeting in fifteen minutes. 

Gently testing the link, she perceived that Spock was still asleep and then lowered her sensitivity to absolute minimum. He still had time--nine or ten days before his condition became critical. She did not know how he would get home this time, but she was not afraid for him. As long as Jim was with him again, there was nothing to fear. 

She began to brush out her hair, perversely grateful that the showers were all sonic because of the dearth of planetary water; she would not have to conduct an H.O. staff meeting with damp hair. She was unsure just how much Vulcans could perceive in this kind of situation. But two of the physicians on her staff were human women with Vulcan husbands. Wet hair was a dead giveaway, and hers was too long and too heavy for her to have dried it in time for the meeting after a conventional shampoo. 

And so she brushed and pondered, her eye on the Vulcan chronometer inlaid in the tile next to the mirror. She knew what Spock's physical condition would be when he reached home. They had been through it together twice before. For her, the worst of it was that only the two-finger touch was safe as long as he was fighting the inevitable. But of his emotional state she could only conjecture this time. 

Still drawing the brush slowly through her hair, she gazed at her reflection without seeing it. Instead, she saw in her mind a memory of Jim as he had looked on a tape she had received from him months ago, in answer to one she had sent him several weeks before that. 

  
After the _Enterprise_ had foiled the alien machine's attempt to destroy life on Earth, Admiral James T. Kirk had regained command of his ship for a year. Sarah had no idea how he had managed that feat, but rejoiced that he had, both for his sake and for Spock's. 

She had not seen Spock when he left the desert and returned to the _Enterprise_ , and she was glad she had not. The fact that he had not communicated with her at that time was mute evidence of his condition, she knew, and she shuddered inwardly whenever she thought of it. But his first tape after his return to the ship had terrified her. He seemed almost incoherent, as though he were drifting in his own mind. He was not in agony, or even unhappy. What he said made sense enough: he had learned a great deal from the alien, and would share it with her when next they met. It was what he did not say that frightened her almost as much as his manner. What had he learned that made him appear so...preoccupied? Bemused? Always before she had been able to read his mood, even on tape. But this time it seemed that he was almost a stranger to her. 

Panicky, she had taped to Jim on an impulse she had never felt before and knew she would probably regret. "I've always tried not to do anything that would violate his privacy," she had said, striving to project the calm that she did not feel. "But that's been a mistake on occasion, and I think this may be another of those occasions. Jim, what's happened to him? I have this eerie feeling that he's the same and yet so very different, and the mix is wrong somehow. Has it got something to do with the division he went through three years ago? Please tell me what's happened." She had sealed the tape and sent it off without playing it over, and heartily regretted that as soon as it was gone. 

A few days later she had received a tape from Jim. Staring at the unopened container, she had told herself that this could not be an answer. Not this soon. And she had been right. 

He looked better on the tape than she had seen him look for several years--no longer tense and strained as he had been while he was chief of Starfleet Operations. It was unfortunate, she thought abstractedly, that they all had to wear such godawful uniforms now, the plainsong blue-gray formfits that Jill and her PREPDIV classmates called dust covers. But he seemed relaxed, and his manner was affectionately informal as always. "I'm not asking your permission," he had said with an apologetic grin. "I think Jill is old enough to decide whose name she goes by. But I think you ought to know that I intend to discuss it with her the next time I see her." Sarah had nodded as she watched; it had always been her intention that Jill would have that choice when she was old enough, and she was relieved and touched that Jim agreed with her. But this was not the tape that she had so wanted to see. 

That one arrived a few weeks later. Almost shaking with apprehension, she had walked to her office after dark so that she would have complete privacy; the subtape viewer at home was in the study where T'Ara did her homework. Turning on only one light, she sat at her desk and activated the viewer. 

"Sarah." He sat before the recorder, looking even healthier that he had on the previous tape. It was the shirt, she thought. White, short-sleeved, collarless and open at the throat, almost like a tennis shirt but of some kind of heavier syncot. "I'm sorry we crossed in the mail. That must have been frustrating for you. I'll try to answer your question. But...I'm not sure that I can. 

"No, I don't think it has much to do with what happened to him three years ago. I think--" He hesitated. "I think most of that got reamed out of him while he was on Vulcan." He frowned, and Sarah winced. _Was he that bad when he came back?_ "His contact with V'ger--with the alien we encountered--caused what you see now. He's...newborn." He smiled then, and Sarah drew in her breath. "It's not all good. I don't want to get your hopes up. He's got a new center of gravity, but it's like--well, it's as though he were in null-g, trying to find a way to push off with nothing to push against." He was frowning again, shaking his head. "Sorry about the mixed metaphors. It's difficult to explain. He is changing. He's more aware of his humanity than he ever was, even when he was human. When his humanity was 'out,' I mean. But we can't--we just can't...." He was silent for a moment. 

"We can't have it both ways," Sarah said softly, beginning to understand at last. 

"We can't expect him to change and not change at the same time. We can't say 'I want this and this to stay the same, and I want this and this to change.' Like his doctor says, Spock's a person, not a cafeteria." Another grin, and Sarah could not help smiling at the screen as though Jim were really there. 

But the grin died away. "I guess what I'm trying to tell you is that anything can happen right now. Most of the time, he seems the same as he's always been. I don't think anybody but McCoy and I would notice the things we've noticed. But...." His expression changed again, and she saw worry there, and perplexity, and something like hurt, and something like love. "An intelligent, articulate human can get you where you live when he's angry. Or hurting. Or both. I said it's not like it was three years ago, but that's not strictly true. At the time, he--his human half challenged me in a briefing session, in front of staff." Sarah gasped. "We brought out the worst in each other. No, that's not true. I brought out the human in him, and he brought out the worst in me." He sighed deeply. "He's not like that now, and yet--he is. In small ways. I think it has to be that way, at least for a while. When I brought him back to the ship after his contact with V'ger, for a few minutes it was as though the human part of him was there again, alone. Without the Vulcan." 

Watching, Sarah felt her skin crawl. _But you said this wasn't like that!_ she cried out silently. And watching Jim, she knew it was not. If Spock had been mangled like that in his contact with the alien, Jim would not look as he did now. 

He had turned aside slightly, his forearm lying along the table, his eyes on his hand. "I needed information about V'ger, and he had it. So except for a few moments...." Now he silently closed his hand--gently, almost as though he held another hand within it. "Except for a new moments, I wasn't really listening to him. And if I had it to do over again, I'd have to do it the same way." His hand opened and his jaw tensed, and Sarah thought sadly, hurting for him, _That's why Earth is still Earth. Because you did what you had to do._

"I can't remember most of what he actually said," Jim finished grimly, "except as it related to V'ger. He made it possible for us to save Earth. I keep telling myself that makes it all worth it, and it does. But...." He shook his head abruptly and faced the recorder again. "He's in transition. Between what and what I don't know. Just try to...." He hesitated again, and it seemed to her that he was now a little embarrassed. "He may not have worked this out before he comes home the next time." And understanding, she thought, _You can count too, can't you, Jim._ "If--if other factors are influencing him, if he's under tension from some other source, things could get complicated." Another hesitation. "That's all I can tell you. I'm sorry. I wish I could be of more help to you. Goodnight, Sarah. Sleep w--." A small, ironic grin. "Take care," he finished softly, and the screen went dark. 

Her meeting with the H.O. staff was now two minutes away. Quickly she gathered her notes, her voice recorder and, she hoped, her thoughts. This was an important meeting, only the third since she had become chief of H.O. after T'Loreth's promotion, and only the second-last before she would be offworld for several months. Time to switch gears. Again. And she thought distractedly, _What in the universe is a gear, anyway? And how do you switch them?_

Her office seemed cool now, the windows translucent against the afternoon sun. She stood for a moment, composing herself. Gears. Maybe if she tried to remember about gears on her way to the meeting, her mind would be cleared before she got there. Just maybe. 

"'Homes'?" T'Loreth asked, eyebrows rising. 

Sitting on the couch with a tape viewer in her lap, Sarah looked up from the journal article she was reading and smiled wryly. "I know. But Chris and Mary were so delighted with this 'wonderful place' they found for T'Ara and me to live in that I didn't have the heart to say no. I should have made my own living arrangements, I guess. Or let the hospital do it. Living quarters were part of the package for the fellowship." 

"Indeed." T'Loreth laid aside the color brochure for Marin Homes as though it had a faintly unpleasant smell. "These structures are all identical." 

"Mmm. All hundred and fifty of them, and every one of the fifteen thousand apartments is furnished identically too. The only good thing about it is that we'll only be there six months." She leaned her head back against the couch, letting her eyes rove around the room. Unlike her own office, which had been T'Loreth's, this one was furnished in Earth tones; T'Loreth's predecessor as chief of staff had been human. "Something like this, I should think." she added, thinking of Amanda's _Furniture made by computers out of God knows what_. "Would you like to switch furniture with me?" She hated to think of giving up her own muted red and gold decor, but the pieces had all been chosen by T'Loreth. 

"That would be highly illogical," T'Loreth answered, but there was a trace of affection in her voice. Then, since for her the subject was closed, she went on to another. "Will Jill not be living with you there?" 

"No. She's been in the dorm at PREPDIV almost two years now. All her friends are there. She'll be spending weekends with us, and the three of us will be on the space liner together. Her fall term starts just after I start at All Worlds." 

T'Loreth did not answer, and since she seemed preoccupied as usual, Sarah went back to her reading. She had stopped apologizing for her presence in her supervisor's office at the end of many work days. T'Loreth's company soothed her, and she had long ago fallen into the habit of doing her professional reading there. 

"It would be well," T'Loreth said quietly, "if you were not pregnant while you are on Earth." 

Absorbed in her reading, Sarah shook her head without looking up. T'Loreth had two sons and no daughters; at times she came as close to fussing over Sarah as a Vulcan can come to fussing over anyone. And it was no surprise to her that T'Loreth too could count. 

There was a short silence, and then T'Loreth continued in the same tone, "Has it occurred to you that there is no one in the universe who could give you so much as a blood transfusion?" 

Still preoccupied, Sarah did not think before she answered. "I'm never sick." 

"That is a stupid answer," T'Loreth said expressionlessly. 

If she had been trying to get Sarah's attention, she succeeded. " _What_ did you say?" But as soon as she met T'Loreth's steady gaze, Sarah realized that even after so many years on Vulcan, she could still misinterpret. There was no personal attack in the words. T'Loreth had simply been making a statement of fact. "Well, yes. I guess it was. But think about it. I've had one and a third pregnancies on an uninhabited planet. My longest labor was four hours, and I've never even had morning sickness. In fact, I've never had a sick day in my life that I can remember. Besides, human/Vulcan pregnancies have very few untreatable complications nowadays." 

"You are not all human, Sarah," T'Loreth answered gravely. "You and your husband think of you as human, but you are not." She was almost frowning. 

"On Earth," Sarah said affectionately, "what you're doing now is called grasping at straws. Why didn't you ever say any of this before?" 

"You were not on Vulcan the first Time. And the second--" T'Loreth hesitated. _Still the privacy thing_ , Sarah thought. _Even between us, even after so long._ "I was not aware that your husband was...returning to Vulcan until you did not appear here when you were expected." 

"The Vulcans on staff just stay home without explanation," Sarah reminded her gently. "Why should there be a double standard?" T'Loreth dropped her gaze. "No, I'm not offended. I'm touched that you care what happens to me. But H.O. is my field, and All Worlds is one of the best hospitals in the galaxy. That's why we wanted me to exchange there, remember?" 

"We are discussing a situation where you would be the patient, not the physician." 

"I'll be home long before the baby's born." Silence. "T'Loreth, I missed out the last time. I am not going to miss out again. I'm sorry if that's not logical, but I don't claim to be that. Especially not about this." 

"Very well." It was almost a sigh, but she meant it. Vulcans argue only for reasons, and it was clear that there was no reason to argue this subject any further. 

  
Amanda's sewing machine was Earth-made. Vulcan-made laser scanners stuck to essentials and produced patterns that fit better but allowed for little variation in style. Fabrics provided infinite variation, more so than on Earth. So it was not logical to go to great lengths to vary the style of the garment. And if someone else showed up in your dress, even in the same fabric, it was considered neither a compliment to your taste nor a threat to your unique identity. It was simply someone else in the same dress. 

"I think it ought to be pastel, don't you?" Jill asked as Sarah scanned her with the wand. She wore her hair in a single braid down her back, as Sarah herself often did when she wanted it out of the way. Standing slim and straight in her underwear, Jill flipped the braid forward over her shoulder as Sarah scanned her back, and blew absently at the wisps of hair that clung to her face. Amanda's sewing room was shaded in the afternoon, but it was almost 40 degrees Celsius outside. "Now that we have the old uniforms back, we all get to see enough bright colors in the line of duty." What she meant was that J.T. got to see enough bright colors in the line of duty. But Sarah declined to point out the obvious. 

"Why are they cycling you the old uniforms?" she asked. 

"There's Big Change in the works, and nobody liked the dust covers. So they went back to the old template for a while." 

"The white shirts were nice." 

"They were okay. Are you almost done?" 

"Almost. What's the hurry? Your father won't be here for several days." 

Jill turned her head. "How did you know that?" When Sarah did not answer, Jill turned thoughtfully to look straight ahead once more. "Do you know what Spock's thinking all the time?" 

"No." She had explained the bonding link and related matters when T'Ara was bonded. Jill had questioned her extensively, but Sarah was not sure how much she had forgotten, or how much she really wanted to know now. Only one way to find out. "What is it that you want to ask me?" 

"Oh...." Jill was silent for a few moments. Then: "Nothing you didn't tell me before. I guess." 

"Come on, little one. There's something--" 

" _Moth_ er!" 

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! You've been gone so much these past two years that I don't remember what your ground rules are." Relieved, she realized that Jill was smiling. "Suppose you tell me what it is that you really want to ask, and then I'll answer it if I can. It's worth a try, isn't it?" 

"Why didn't you have a baby last Time?" 

"Because the GS malfunctioned. I can't conceive unless it's working." 

"Is it working now?" 

"You better believe it is." Jill turned and looked down over her shoulder, obviously delighted. "Don't do that. Your measurements will be off." Jill turned back, and Sarah passed the wand a few more times. "Done. Anything else you want to know?" 

"Uh-huh. T'Ara says there's a 48.97 percent probability that you can still have a boy." Jill picked up the abbreviated sleeveless tunic that she had draped over the computer console and slipped into it, tying the sash loosely. "I say it's less, because you and Spock already had her. But she says how many of one you've already had isn't a relevant variable with Vulcans. What do you think?" 

_I think you're still a lot closer to her than I am, even with me here and you light years away._ Sarah frowned a little and then smiled. "Do you think that matters to either of us?" 

Jill pressed Sarah's arm briefly and then turned to concentrate on programming the fabric cycler. The gesture was so adult, and so different from the impulsive hugs that Jill had been prone to as a child, that Sarah was caught between intense joy and a bittersweet sadness. _I've missed two years of her life_ , she thought. _But at least Jim hasn't._

Dropping to the floor next to the console, Sarah laid her arms loosely across her drawn-up knees. "What did you and your father do together while he was at Starfleet?" Might as well change the subject. There was something there. Something there that Jill wasn't asking. Resisting the impulse to probe telepathically, Sarah nevertheless received the impression that the unasked question was generalized, nebulous, still unformed, that there was some kind of insecurity underlying it, and that Jill herself did not yet know what it was. 

"You asked me that last year." Absorbed, Jill still smiled a little. 

"Humor me. I like to hear you tell about it." 

"Why?" 

"Because I like to see you happy." 

Jill smiled again, wistfully this time. "We mostly took the boat out. You know." 

"Still just in the Bay?" Sarah had always been land locked, and the idea of riding in a vessel with nothing but water under it made her feel slightly queasy. 

"When we were down." 

"Down?" They looked at each other uncomprehendingly, and then Sarah began, uneasily, to comprehend. "Does it fly?" 

"Didn't I tell you?" 

"No, Jill. You didn't tell me." 

"I can make Seattle in half an hour if I go high and straight." 

"You?" 

"Oh, Mother. He's right there. And I got drilled." Jill rolled her eyes expressively. "Oh, did I get drilled. One time he did something--I don't know what it was, but we dropped about a thousand meters before I pulled us out of it." 

"How high were you?" Sarah asked faintly. 

"About ten thousand, I guess. That's where we usually cruise. Cruised, I mean." She sighed wistfully. 

"Did he spend every weekend with you?" The intent of the question was innocent enough, but as soon as Sarah spoke it aloud, she realized how it sounded. 

Jill gave her a look and said wryly, "He's not a priest, Mother." 

Repressing, in turn, each of the several inappropriate rejoinders that came to mind, Sarah asked, "Did you ever meet any of his friends?" And then realized that the second question sounded even worse than the first. 

But Jill did not respond as she had expected. "One," she said quietly. 

"You didn't...." _Like her._ Wrong. Something else, much more troubling. 

"We got along. She didn't like it much when I was with them, or when he went with me alone. But she was a pretty good sport about it." Frowning now. "She was an admiral too." 

"'Was'?" 

"She's dead," Jill said flatly. "It was a transporter accident. J.T. was right there watching." 

"Oh, my God," Sarah whispered. "Was he--did he--?" 

"It happened just before he went out again. They had a one-year, and they didn't renew. Then she died. That's all I know. He talked to me about a lot of things, but he never talked much about Lori. He seems okay now, though." Wistfully: "On his tapes, I mean." 

"You miss him a lot since he's gone again." Jill nodded. "Did you always get along?" 

"Mostly. But he was kind of off while he was at Operations. One time right after I got there...." She hesitated, and Sarah patted the floor next to her. But Jill shook her head. "I want to get this done." 

"You have time. They don't have to be here for another five or six days." 

Jill cocked her head to one side. "I thought you said you don't know what Spock's thinking." 

"This isn't thinking." 

Jill nodded slowly, and dropped down to the floor, lotus-like. "It's cooler down here." 

"Just like on Earth. Why do you think I sit on the floor so much? So. What happened one time right after you got there?" 

"Well, he was in a mood, and I said something, and...it got a little thick." Quickly: "It was really dumb, and he couldn't help how he was feeling. He wasn't following his star anymore." They smiled at each other, remembering. "He knows everybody there. I couldn't do anything that he didn't know about. That week I got a D in a pop quiz, and something happened in the dorm. Some of us...we put something in somebody's bed. Mother, don't ask, okay? You don't want to know. Anyway, I heard about the D, and I heard about the other thing. He wasn't usually that b-- like that, but he was in a really foul mood. It was a Sunday, and he was always worse on Sundays because tomorrow was Monday. Saturdays always were better. Anyway, just while we were landing he asked me what was bothering me. It was really dumb, but I was just fed up. And...I...said...." Jill rolled her eyes again as though she couldn't believe she could ever have been twelve years old. "'Being chief honcho at Operations doesn't exactly make you Mister Sunshine.'" 

"Oh, Jill. Was he angry?" 

"He was furious." 

"What did he say?" 

"Nothing." 

_"Nothing?"_

"Not at first. Then he said it was past my bedtime." Jill grinned; at a distance of two years, she was obviously able to appreciate a skillful verbal put-down without feeling threatened by it. But then the grin faded. "He took me back to the dorm and I didn't hear from him for two weeks." She got up then, returned to the console, and began to press a button. On. Off. On. Off. Watching her expression, Sarah realized that she was moved rather than unhappy. "Then he wrote me a letter." 

After a moment, Sarah asked softly, "On paper?" 

"Mmm." On. Off. On. Off. "He said he was sorry, and...and about how he was proud of me. He said a lot of things." On. Off. On. Off. "I still have it. We didn't have any trouble after that." She looked down at her mother, who was smiling up at her. "Did you know he's going to rename the boat?" 

"I didn't know it had a name." 

"Mother! Boats always have names!" 

"What was its name at first?" 

" _The Raven_. You know. 'Nevermore.'" 

Sarah shivered in spite of the heat. "Did he tell you that's why he named it that?" 

"No. But I knew." Incredibly, Jill was smiling as she began to work at the console in earnest. "I think yellow. Or lavender. Everything Chris and Mary give me is pink. With lace on it." 

"What about blue?" Sarah asked absently, her mind still on _The Raven_. 

"Uh-uh. Right at the end of last term, I was in Life Sciences all the time for a month. If I never see blue again--" 

"Jill, what is Jim's new name for the boat?" 

" _Voyager 7_ ," answered Jim's daughter, still smiling. 

  
T'Sal looked very much like a monolithic Terran cactus. She grew about halfway down the hill from the house, tended carefully by her mistress. T'Ara had no animal pets other than I-Chaya; Vulcan animals were never confined, and I-Chaya and Who remained house pets by their own choice. But T'Sal was T'Ara's own, and she took her responsibilities as seriously as she took everything else. 

Those responsibilities included a certain amount of conversation, upon which T'Sal seemed to thrive. T'Ara did all the talking and T'Sal did all the singing, in a voice that sounded like muffled wind chimes. As they conversed, T'Ara would tilt her head slowly to one side and then to the other, and T'Sal would imitate the movement. There was a certain hypnotic serenity in the slow, smooth movements of the eyeless, faceless plant, back and forth, back and forth, to the accompaniment of T'Sal's singing. And any number could play. Sarah had tried it herself one evening when she was especially tense, and found that the experience was not unlike watching a fire or a waterfall. 

"Is T'Sal self-aware?" she had asked Sarek, who had looked at her thoughtfully for a moment before answering. 

"Have you asked T'Sal that question?" 

"You mean...out loud?" 

Sarek raised both eyebrows. "Does T'Sal not speak 'out loud'"? 

Sarah had asked T'Sal the question, and been sung to for almost ten minutes. As the song died away, she thought _Will my world seem as alien to my own child as hers still seems to me?_

The evening of the day on which she had helped Jill make her dress (which turned out to be pale green), she determined that it was time to discuss their impending trip with T'Ara. She had informed, explained, attempted to kindle interest, but there had been no discussion. T'Ara had simply listened, asking no questions. Now nearly ten, she was intellectually several years older than that. But emotionally she was an almost total unknown to her mother. 

"What would you have done if your child had been a girl?" Sarah had asked Amanda once. "Doesn't the Image relationship conflict with the human pre-adolescent's need to identify with the parent of the same sex?" 

"If you think it does, it will," Amanda had answered quietly. 

"I can't talk to her, Amanda. When Jill comes home, it's almost as though she'd never been away. T'Ara is here all the time, and it's almost as though we live on different worlds." 

"What happened to her bangs?" Amanda asked with apparent irrelevance. 

"She let them grow out. What does that have to do with--" 

"Why do you think she parts her hair on the side now? Have you noticed how she smooths it behind her ears with both hands? Who else does that?" 

"Jill does." 

"Who," Amanda asked, giving a perfect imitation of Who, "Else?" 

Remembering, Sarah smiled a little sheepishly and mentally took a deep breath as she joined T'Ara in the study where the child was supposedly doing her homework. Instead, Prokofiev's Peter stalked the wolf there. T'Ara had suppressed the holo, but Peter's theme and the bird's danced on the air, the duck proclaiming mournfully the while that it was still alive inside the wolf. T'Ara turned her eyes to her mother, utterly mystified. 

"I do not understand," she said hopelessly. 

"It's a story told with music," Sarah explained, sitting down next to her. Vulcans had no "program music." Music was music, and stories were stories. "Each of the characters has a theme of its own. This is Peter's theme." 

"I have listened to the documentation," T'Ara informed her gravely. "But I do not understand what a hunter is. What is the purpose of the weapons they carry?" 

Peter's lovely, lilting theme went on as Sarah met the child's gaze in silence. _If you can answer Jill's, you can answer hers_ , she thought. "The purpose is to kill animals. It's a sport. Recreation. People do it for fun." 

She watched the child control; the process was almost visible. 

"It was my understanding that this story was written for children," T'Ara said expressionlessly. 

"It was." The deep breath that Sarah took now was not mental. "Your Vulcan ancestors gave up their barbaric ways centuries ago, T'Ara. Your human ancestors are a little bit behind on that." 

"It is on that world that you wish us to live for six Standard months?" 

"Little one, we'll be living in a city. Like ShiKahr. Well, San Francisco isn't very much like ShiKahr. It's a lot bigger, and people live much closer together there. I showed you the picture of the place where we'll be living." 

"Indeed." And Sarah was reminded of T'Loreth's expression when she said Homes? "Are there hunters in San Francisco?" 

"Of course not. People have pets, though. Chris and Mary have a dog, and Robbie and Stevie love him just like you love I-Chaya." Everything so almost-true.... 

"Logic suggests," T'Ara's calm little voice informed her, "that you have chosen to return to your world at this time rather than remain on Vulcan and bear my father another child." 

After a long moment, Sarah reached over and turned off the tape without shifting her gaze from T'Ara's. "I find your logic obscene." Her tone precisely duplicated the child's, and she took fleeting pleasure in the fact that T'Ara's eyes widened even as her eyebrows rose. "On what premise do you base your conclusion?" 

Again she drew momentary satisfaction from the child's brief hesitation. 

"It is not logical for you to travel to Earth if you intend--" 

"That's not a premise. That's an assumption." T'Ara dropped her gaze. "It doesn't take six months to have a baby, T'Ara. It takes nine. I suggest you remember your basic arithmetic and your basic biology before you try to play logic games with me. And I also suggest that you remember that intellectual and moral superiority do not constitute a license for arrogance." 

Another long moment of silence passed before T'Ara said softly, "I ask forgiveness." 

"And so do I." Sarah paused for a moment, and the went on when she was sure she could keep her voice steady. "I was treating you like a baby, talking to you as though you were half your age. Each of us deserves better than this from the other. I'm going to Earth for six months because I've made a commitment to do that, and I'm going to take you with me because you need me more right now than you ever have before." _Just a few more seconds. If I can just...._ "I love you very much, and I know you love me even though you can't tell me or show me that you do. That gives us a choice, starting tonight. We can do this separately, as though we were strangers traveling side-by-side. Or we can do it together, as we've never really done anything before. Will you try?" 

"Yes." 

"I accept your gift of self." But when T'Ara looked up, her green eyes wide and faintly misty, Sarah raised her hand. "No. No obligations. Just try." Laying her hand on the child's shoulder, she leaned over and kissed her forehead. "Good night, little one. I'm going for a walk. I'll see you in the morning."   
   
   
  

_I hate this place_. 

She sat on the steps, in the purple darkness and the desert night chill, wishing that she had brought a shawl. T'Sal stared facelessly back at her, her cactus-round head erect and unmoving. In one part of her mind, Sarah knew that she could probably find a measure of peace if she coaxed T'Sal to sing to her. But like many a human in the throes of pointless rage, she did not want to find peace, and perversely avoided it. Instead, she turned to look up at the house, now darkened except for a light in Sarek's study. 

"You did this," she whispered, knowing even as she said the words that that they were only partially true. "She's a self-righteous little prig, and it's your doing! 'Logic suggests.' Oh, damn, damn, damn! It would have served you both right if I'd slapped her mouth." But it was useless. Even as she said the words, she could feel her rage abating. Painfully, she made a small sound between a laugh and a sob. Not Sarek's doing. No indeed. With a smartass for a mother and another for a father, T'Ara could hardly have escaped her destiny. 

Her companion chimed a small two-syllable chime, and Sarah thought it sounded like _Indeed_. 

"Shut up, T'Sal." Sighing, she rose. "I wish you infinite fertility, and may all your offspring have to have the last word." Silence. "And all their fathers too." T'Sal gave a faint clink. "Tell me about it," Sarah said wryly, and walked on down the hill, not really knowing where she was going. 

_I hate this place_. The words rang in her mind, and she wondered if, at bottom, they were true. Her years on Vulcan seemed to stand on end in her mind rather than stretching backwards--a tall, emotionless barrier between her and her past life on Earth. That was real tonight as it had not been for a long time; it was the Earth years that stretched backwards beyond the barrier, beckoning her toward a nostalgia that she had not felt for a long time. Beyond the barrier of logic and control and light years, Chris and Mary waited with their children to welcome Sarah Halsted and her children home. 

_Nice sentiment_ , she thought wryly, quickening her pace as she passed the greenhouse and the wall at the foot of the garden. This was home. She knew it in her heart, and in her soul. Exactly when it had happened she did not know, but only that between them Amanda and T'Loreth had made their world home for her, sharing selflessly the part of themselves she most needed from each. Had it not been for them, she knew that with Spock gone most of the time, she could not have borne the prolonged isolation from her own race. 

_This is my home._ She had said it years ago to Chris's alternate, speaking only of the house in which she and her children lived. But it had long since become equally true for the red planet on which that house stood. And yet, she silently rejoiced that T'Ara would soon come to know Earth, if only for a short time. Jill had been gone for two years, and yet Sarah knew that she and her older daughter were closer than they had ever been--because Jill had been on Earth all that time. If two years could do that for a relationship when the people involved were not even together, then surely six months together on Earth would help her and T'Ara to come to terms with their own relationship.  

  
She knew now where she was going, and why. That afternoon, she had delivered a baby for the first time since she had become the head of her department. The experience had given her great joy, and although the child was in excellent health, she decided to check on him now. She needed the walk, and besides.... For the first time since her argument with T'Ara, she smiled to herself. And besides, Zoe would be good company this evening. 

Her steps slowed as she passed the Concourse of Evolution, now deserted as it had been the night she and Jim visited there so many years ago. 

For several days, her link with Spock had been almost nonexistent--not her doing, but his. She had begun to think of it as 'backing off', and in one sense she was relieved that he had done it, since it enabled both of them to function more efficiently. At the time, he had communicated to her almost verbally that the _Enterprise_ was engaged in some operation that required considerable left-brain activity on his part--some sort of precision measurement, she was sure, although she had not the slightest idea what he was measuring. Linked to her in his present state, he was incapable of performing his part in the procedure. Their link was like a subliminal tease; she now woke several times each night bathed in sweat, and took care not to doze when she rested in the afternoon. But there had been no real communication between them for several days, and she needed none. His tension and discomfort were still bearable, and he knew she was there for him if he needed her. As for when he would arrive, she hoped it would be later rather than sooner. The closer he was to giving in to his biological destiny, the less tension they both would have to endure before he did. 

She walked on past the concourse, thinking again that Zoe would be just what she needed after her confrontation with T'Ara. 

  
"You surprise me, Halsted. I thought you cerebral types all had sweet, well-adjusted little geniuses who speedread at two and pee right in the pot from six months on." 

Resting her forearms on the edge of a neonate isolette, Sarah grinned. "Keller, I cannot _wait_ until you get yours." 

"Almost a year to go. Or so I...infer." Zoe shrugged, her expert eyes running over her domain. She had red curls, freckles, and a new Vulcan/human husband who seemed as tolerant of her irreverence as Sarek was of Amanda's mischievousness. She ran the neonatal nursery with one hand, as it were, and a daycare center for the infant children of staff with the other. The right hand always knew exactly what the left hand was doing, and vice-versa. Among her many talents, Zoe was an extremely sensitive telepath, and she could monitor several dozen infants simultaneously with no strain at all. Now she nodded toward the isolette. "You stuck on this kid, or what? This afternoon, I thought he might be in trouble the way you hung around after they brought him in." 

"I guess I am, a little. I haven't delivered a boy in months." Still leaning lightly on the isolette, Sarah turned her gaze once more to the baby who lay asleep within it. Pixie. Changeling. _It must be because of the Time_ , she thought. Her answer to Jill's question that afternoon had been as true for her as she knew it was for Spock. Yet this boychild engendered in her an emotion that she had never felt before. It was as though she flew back through the years on Amanda's memories as she had once, but further this time.... 

"Well," Zoe continued, pulling Sarah's thoughts back to their conversation, "I'm betting on T'Ara. She was a class act even when I had her in daycare." 

"She was incorrigible. They all are at that age." 

"Yeah. But there was something going on all the time. In her head. It was in the eyes, mostly. I don't know how to expl...Hey, are you feeling all right?" Zoe turned her head to look in the direction that Sarah was staring. 

It was inconceivable to her that he could be this close without her knowing it. And looking so calm. As he moved toward her, he smiled a little and tilted his head slightly to one side, and it was almost as though he had never been gone. Except that the last time she had seen him, before he went to the desert, there had been no fire in him.... 

Zoe was in trouble. 

Although bonded and married to a Vulcan/human hybrid, she had never experienced pon farr. And she now stood physically between them, a highly sensitive but minimally trained telepath in the direct line of fire. Literally. Apart, they had been able to reduce the contact to its lowest common denominator. But now, in the same room, there was nothing they could do to spare one another, or Zoe. 

Sarah understood immediately that Spock could have had no way of anticipating this situation. An unbonded human observer, even a telepath, would have perceived nothing. A bonded Vulcan would have shielded instantly as soon as he or she perceived Spock's condition, and most human wives of Vulcan males would have done the same almost as quickly. But that response was born either of Vulcan training or of the human woman's experience with the phenomenon. Zoe had had no experience with it and no warning, and although she was not sexually aroused by the contact, she was shaken to the depths of her soul. Sarah perceived panic, dread, and even worse, self-doubt: _This? Me?_ It was as though a virgin whose knowledge came from books had, on the eve of her wedding, abruptly witnessed rape.  Zoe took a step backwards, narrowly avoiding a collision with an empty isolette. And then everything changed. Before even Spock could attempt to assist her telepathically, Zoe straightened her shoulders and swallowed, slamming shields so resoundingly that both Spock and Sarah winced. She turned slightly toward Spock, glanced quickly at the two stripes on his blue sleeve, raised her chin, took a deep breath, and forced a very shaky smile. 

"Good evening, Commander. It's nice to meet the rest of the family after all this time." 

"Zoe Keller," Sarah said faintly. "Zoe, this is Spock." 

Zoe nodded, mute now, and Spock inclined his head without speaking. Then Zoe turned and moved almost blindly toward Sarah, obviously intending to continue on past her until she was as far away as possible. Her shields slipped momentarily as Sarah had hoped they would, and in that moment, she sent as hard as she could. 

_Class act, Keller_. 

Zoe's face was colorless, her eyes wide. What she sent back was emphasized by the slight, silent movement of her lips. 

_JeSUS!_

"Zoe." Sarah had no idea what was acceptable in these circumstances, since these exact circumstances were probably unprecedented in Vulcan/human interaction. But there was no alternative in her mind. She knew that Zoe was shielding both of them out again, and so she sent quickly, apologetically, _Forgive me. I must do this for her._ Grasping Zoe gently by the arms, she went on quietly, aloud. "I won't be in for a while, but we'll need to talk as soon as I get back. Don't worry in the meantime. About anything. Please?" 

"Okay." It was only a whisper, and still distraught, Zoe tried to pull away. 

"Promise." Refusing to let go, Sarah shook her gently. "Promise you won't worry. Trust me. Will you promise?" Zoe stared, and Sarah hugged her tight. "You'll be fine," she whispered. "It's not what you're thinking. _Promise me._ " 

"I promise," Zoe whispered back. "Enjoy your vaca--I mean--oh, shit!" And she was off down the aisle between the isolettes, not looking back. 

  
_A balancing act._

Watching him as he moved around her office, which he had not seen before, she tried to analyze why that phrase had come to her mind. They had managed to reduce the link to a minimal level once more, and in doing so had eliminated all verbal telepathic rapport. And so she could think her way through this without his being aware of what she was thinking. 

Always before, the Vulcan in him had been dominant, at least to outward appearance. But when she touched her fingers to his, she had immediately perceived that a new tension had replaced the one with which she had become so familiar even in their brief times together. A balancing act. It was as though he were walking a tightrope, making conscious choices moment by moment as to what the appropriate response was. Something--she could not tell what--had jolted him into the realization that there was a lack, an emptiness, in the way he had looked at life and responded to it before.... Before what? Before his meeting with the alien machine? But how could that have changed him so profoundly? 

And profoundly changed he was. Much as he wanted to maintain his composure as long as possible, she knew that the need to put his arms around her and hold her close had almost overwhelmed him as soon as they were alone together. The last Time, he had been totally absorbed in fighting the fever and its accompanying effects; there had been virtually nothing else on his mind until he had no mind left. But now.... 

Now he stood with his back to her, fighting something else. Could he still be wanting to hold her? But no, that was a dangerous idea even for her. _God_ , she thought irrationally, _I wish he hadn't come home so soon. This is unbearable. When do I get to make my own ground rules with_ somebody? 

"Are you angry about what I said to Zoe?" 

He turned slowly, and she expected a raised eyebrow. Angry? Who? Me? Spock? But none came. "No." He looked at her speculatively. "It was most...interesting." He paused, and again she had the impression that he was balancing alternatives, playing them off against one another. _That's not the way, my love_ , she thought in despair. _How long can you keep on thinking about every word you say and every move you make?_ "Is she your friend?" he asked finally. 

"Yes. For a long time. She took care of T'Ara when she was a baby." 

"But--that is not why she is your friend." 

"No. We work together, and--well, Zoe doesn't go over too well with most of the people on staff. She's superb at her job, but Vulcans tend not to approve of her...language, mostly." 

"Indeed." Now the eyebrow cocked. "She speaks aloud as you occasionally speak in your mind." For a moment there was intimacy, even laughter in his gaze. But then he looked away. He was not trying to be Vulcan, she realized. He was trying not to be Vulcan. If intimacy grew too strong, the plak tow could overtake him in an instant. "Sarah," he went on, almost as though he were aware of her thoughts, "please be patient. Were it my choice, I should not have come home in this condition at this particular time." 

"Why? You said you'd tell me about what happened to you." 

"I cannot. Not now." Frustration. Even a touch of anger. "Now, it is like a dream. I feel--I feel as though the gift I was given has been immolated." Human frustration. Human anger. Human bitterness? 

"This isn't like you!" And then she remembered: _He's in transition, between what and what I don't know._ "I'm sorry. It'll pass. This doesn't last forever. You'll be--yourself in just a few days." Talk about something else. Anything else. "Is Jim on leave yet?" 

"He will be tomorrow." 

"Jill has been counting the hours." She was rewarded with a faint smile. "Did he tell you he's going to ask her if she wants to take his name legally?" He nodded, still smiling. "He's worried about you, you know. He didn't tell me exactly what happened, but--" _Oh my God._

He simply looked at her, no longer smiling. 

"Yes, I taped to him. After--after--" What the _hell_ did they call the thing? "After V'ger. You seemed so changed. I was scared to death--" 

"Why didn't you ask me what you wanted to know?" 

"Because you said wouldn't tell me until you got home. You know I used to tape to him all the time when Jill was little." 

"This has nothing to do with Jill." 

"What are you thinking? You can't believe that either of us would ever--" 

"When that subject came up once before," he said calmly, "I told Jim that I did not believe he would ever need me to function as his conscience." Not controlling. Calm. Dangerously calm. "That situation has not changed." 

_If other factors are influencing him--if he's under tension from some other source...._ But she could not stop herself. "You don't trust me. You trust him." 

"You have appetites that are not being satisfied." _Get you where you live when he's angry. Or hurting. Or both._ "It is logical that you might consider alternatives." 

The muted red and gold of T'Loreth's desert-tone decor seemed to blur in her vision, and for a moment she thought she would not be able to draw her next breath. She began to back away from him, eyes narrowed, knowing how a mortally wounded animal must feel when it crawls away to hide. But there was nowhere to hide in here. If she could get out. If she could just get out.... 

His arms were around her even before she could turn away, and her own need to hold him and be held was far stronger than her need to hide. At first she thought that he had acted on impulse, and dreaded his reaction when he realized what he had done to himself; already the fever that he had always fought so despairingly was racing through him like a flash fire. But he was as aware of it as she was, and he didn't care. That realization almost took her breath away a second time. He simply didn't care. Filling his mind, which she could now clearly perceive, was a cry: _Why do humans say things they don't_ mean? And aloud, as he pressed his face against the side of hers, he whispered over and over, "No, Sarah, no, no, no, no...." 

And then they both realized that they would never make it home if they did not start immediately. Or even sooner, if that could be arranged. 

"It's all right." Stupid thing to say, she thought, and then realized that she had been speaking to herself, with joy. Pulling away a little, she took his hands in hers. "You're panicking, my love. No--Spock, listen to me. We can stay here if we have to. We can set the privacy lock." He shook his head, then pressed his forehead against hers, then began to push her away even though it tore at him to do it. "That won't help now," she said steadily, put her arms around him again and pulled him close. "You know this is as bad as it's going to get until we're actually--" A shudder passed through him. "You're panicking," she repeated softly, beginning to stroke his hair. "It's not that far. _Think_. Think how far it is. Think. You can still think, as long as you don't panic. How far is it? How long does it take to get home from here? Ten minutes? Eleven? Ten point five? Tell me. Ten point--one four one six plus minutes?" She giggled, and felt him shiver with something other than the fever. 

"Eleven point two five," he said thickly, on the verge of both laughter and tears. 

"That's good. That's wonderful. We can count it off if you want to." 

"No," he said softly. "That will not be necessary." 

"All right. Then we won't count." Gently she pulled away from him, wondering if it would better to keep him talking or not. "Let's go home, then." And, still thinking about whether it was better to keep him talking, she moved quickly away from him toward the door. 

In an instant he was beside her, his hand grasping her wrist so tightly that she almost cried out with the pain. "Don't run from me!" 

"I'm not!" But looking into his eyes and into his mind, she saw that the response she had almost triggered was neither rational nor human. 

He looked down then, down at the hand grasping her wrist. At first she thought that he did not want to look her in the eye, but then she realized that he was gradually loosening his grip. Slowly, slowly, almost one finger at a time, he forced his hand open. But he did not withdraw it. Instead, he moved it slowly until they were palm to palm. Then slowly still, almost one finger at a time, he interlaced his fingers with hers and closed his hand--neither gently nor painfully, but strongly enough to press their palms together. She too closed her fingers around his hand, and then looked up at him in awe. 

"Do you have any idea how different you are this Time?" 

He was exhausted from his efforts at control. He looked gaunt, drained, almost colorless. Yet she saw the faintest hint of a smile deep in his eyes. 

"My wife, if it pleases you, may we go home now?" One eyebrow rose, if only fractionally. "Slowly?" 

  
"You look sixteen," her mother had said, knowing that this would be the supreme compliment. "Maybe even seventeen." The compliment had had its desired effect, and she had expected something of the sort from J.T. But he had just smiled a little--a little nervously, she thought, and asked her if she made the dress herself. It was not a put-down, she knew. He didn't do that anymore, and besides, she knew that the dress fit right and was becoming to her. Mother wouldn't have let her wear it to the Officers' Club if it wasn't right. But there was something about the way she looked that made J.T. nervous anyway. 

Over their appetizers, she asked, "Do I get to hear the bad news now, or do we get to fight about it first?" 

He looked up from his plate, directly at her, and grinned a little. She had decided long ago that in this uniform, he wasn't just handsome. He was beautiful. She had been really glad they hadn't given up the gray and white dress uniforms when they trashed the dust covers. 

"You don't exactly look like a little kid anymore," he said wryly, and his gazed flicked briefly toward a pair of his fellow officers three or four tables away. 

They had all entered the dining room at the same time, and he had introduced her simply as Jill Halsted, just as he always did. They had discussed it at length before she went to PREPDIV, and she had made it clear that she did not want everybody to think that she was there because he got her in. They had almost had an argument about it, but she had stuck it out and won in the end; it was bad enough that everybody knew her mother was married to Commander Spock. And some of her instructors knew J.T. was her father anyway. He didn't give up easy. But it was nice to think that he meant it when he said he was proud of her. 

"We went to the club at Starfleet six months ago," she began, and then stopped. 

"That was six months ago." 

"Oh." Abruptly, she put her hand to her mouth to smother the giggle that she could not totally suppress. She was too happy to get mad at him, and as long as she wasn't mad.... 

"What the devil is so funny?" he asked irritably. As though he didn't know. 

"You mean you all sit around here in your beautiful uniforms and wonder who's kinky and who isn't?" 

"Well--" He frowned, sat back in his chair, and rubbed his chin as though he were considering it. "As a matter of fact--" He glanced over at her, and she could see that she wasn't the only one who was having trouble not laughing. He was still rubbing his chin, but he had his hand over his mouth now. "Dammit, Jill--!" 

"You shouldn't swear in front of the crew, Captain," she informed him, deadpan. "It's in The Book." Then she lost it and cracked up. He was not far behind. 

When he was through coughing, he asked, "Do you want to leave?" 

"No. Do you?" 

"No." 

"Can I have waffles?" 

"Waf-- ? Jill, this is the--" 

"So? I haven't had waffles in three months. With your permission, sir?" 

The waffles had to be made to order, from scratch. But he was good at giving orders, and not very good at taking no for an answer. 

She was still wiping her fingers and thinking about a chocolate malt when he asked her about taking his name. 

Tears came to her eyes before she could stop them. "Damn," she said softly, and then, "I'm sorry. No, don't. My hands are all sticky." But that didn't seem to bother him at all. 

"Let me help." 

"I can't be Jill Kirk in Starfleet, J.T. You know why." 

"No," he said gently. "I don't know why. Suppose you tell me." 

"Can I blow my nose first?" While she did that, she thought about what she should say. But nothing would convince him except what was really happening. "Three of my teachers know who I am. That you're my father. One of them teaches just to me, as though I'm the only one in the class. You know what I mean?" He nodded slowly. "Another one curves the test grades, and I always get an A. Last time there were six A's in a class of fifteen." She blew her nose again and put the handkerchief away in her purse. "Some curve." 

"And the third one?" he asked softly. 

"Oh, he's easy. He doesn't like you." As quickly as the tears had come a moment before, the grin came now. "The first week of the term, I was daydreaming one time, and he asked a question and then called my name. You know how a teacher can do that, so you don't hear the question? Well, he got me that time, but--" She tried to feel guilty. She had been trying to feel guilty all term, but not succeeding. "I'd pretend I wasn't paying attention, and when he'd ask me a question, I'd look like I didn't know the answer and then I'd answer it." Incredulity that was almost awe overcame her. "He never learns, J.T. I've pulled that on him three or four times, and he never learns!" 

He stared at her, utterly delighted. She could not remember ever having seen him so delighted. "I didn't know Cameron was down in PREPDIV now." 

"How did you-- _That's_ why he doesn't like you!" 

Now he was trying to look guilty and not succeeding. "He'll flunk you if he can." 

"I'm watching him." 

"How many times did he get you?" 

"Just that once." Now it was her turn to be delighted. "How many times did he get you?" 

"Once. And you're right. He never learns. If you don't want to be Jill Kirk in Starfleet, you better start watching yourself." He was still grinning, but wistfully. "Okay, you made your point. I'll go along with it because of something you don't know. Can you keep a secret? No, I mean it. Even Spock doesn't know yet." Now, suddenly, he was frowning a little. 

"What is it?" 

"I received new orders the morning after Spock went on leave. I've been reassigned to HQ. I've got three more months aboard the _Enterprise_. Then I'll be chief honcho at the Academy." 

She knew that "chief honcho" was supposed to be a private joke, just like "Can you keep a secret?" But she could not smile. All she could think was _You're not going to let them do that to you again! Not again!_

"Is having me around that hard to take?" 

"No! Oh, no. I--" Selfish, she thought. Feeling like this is selfish. But she could not help smiling now. "We can go sailing again." 

He nodded, smiling too. "But that's not what you thought about when I first told you." 

"You didn't think it was all that great at HQ before," she said carefully. 

"I've been given an assignment, Jill. You've been in Starfleet two years. That's plenty long enough to know the difference between assigned duties and what you might think is 'great.'" He was not angry at her, she knew. And yet, somehow, he sounded angry. "The party's over, and the Old Man's going ashore to stay this time." She didn't like the way he said that, but she couldn't think why. Not fast enough to answer him anyway. "Shall we go walk off the waffles?" 

She thought briefly of the chocolate malt, but this didn't seem like the time to mention it. 

  
As they walked home, he talked about the things he wanted to do when he got to the Academy, changes he thought it was time for. He asked her opinion, and she gave it; he argued with her, and she argued back. There had been a time, not too long ago, when she had been afraid that he would always treat her like a little kid. But lately he seemed to think of her more like Mother did, as though she were--not grown up, but growing up. You could almost talk to him about anything.... 

They stood at the foot of the garden, looking back over ShiKahr. Not so many lights as San Francisco, and the sky looked red even at night. 

A different world.... 

You could almost talk to him about anything. Even something you couldn't talk to Mother about. 

"J.T., what's wrong with Mother and Spock?" 

He had turned to look at her when she began to ask the question, and for a moment she thought he was going to look away again. But he didn't. 

"Too much Starfleet," he answered quietly. "In the ten years since we picked you up from Tara, they've probably been together less than ten days." 

Out loud, she thought. You say it out loud, and then it doesn't scare you so much. "Why do they last?" It was only a whisper. 

"Because they want to." He put his arm around her shoulders, and they began to climb up the hill toward the dark house. "It's as old as the military. They're together just long enough to find out what their problems are, but not long enough to solve them. And that's when they're on the same world. Stir in a few thousand light years, and the mix gets pretty thick." When she did not answer, he tightened his arm. "They'll last. Don't second-guess. Nobody second-guesses Spock. Not for long, anyway." 

"You could take him with you." He glanced at her questioningly. "Spock. With you. To the Academy. Then you wouldn't have to worry about him, and if there's a ConClass going near this sector when we have a break, he could be home in four or five days. Or maybe...maybe he and Sarek could fix it so the _Surak_ would come and get him. That would be even faster." 

He stopped walking and dropped his arm, stood there just looking at her. "My father used to have a saying," he said finally. "'We get so soon old, and so late smart.' How'd you get smart so soon?" 

"Blame it on the gene pool." 

He laughed, put his arm around her again, and they went on up the hill. He seemed to be thinking hard, and she wondered whether this was a good time to ask something else about the gene pool. It's wasn't exactly a taboo subject, but you never knew whether he'd talk or just clam up. She thought about it for a few more steps, and decided to take a chance. 

"How old is David now?" 

As she had expected, he turned his head sharply to look at her. "Why are you so curious about him?" 

Well, she'd asked for it. "Wouldn't you be if you were me?" 

He sighed. "I suppose." 

They had entered the courtyard, and their steps slowed; he was staying with Sarek and Amanda this time. This Time. Oh, well. Whatever. 

"He'll be twenty-two this fall," J.T. went on, dropping his arm and moving away from her. "His mother has a Federation grant to do some work offworld." _So, pace_ , she thought. _Last time we were on the boat and you couldn't pace, so this has got to be a better deal._ "The team leaves Earth in three or four months, and he's on it." 

"You've seen them?" she asked, startled. 

"I've seen the proposal." He didn't actually pace, but moved away from her and then turned, absently snapping his fingers. "I told you why I never see them." Snap, snap. "Why do you keep asking me about him? And don't tell me 'curious.'" Snap, snap. "All right. What the devil to you think I should have done? Kidnap him? Sneak around and see him on the sly without his mother's consent? Grow up, will you?" 

Slowly she walked to him until they faced one another squarely. "That's what he's been doing for twenty-two years. Without you." 

"Eighteen," he answered wryly. "I told you. My guess is it's good riddance. If he remembers me at all." 

"Was it that bad?" Maybe she was going to get the story this time. If she didn't screw up and say the wrong thing. 

"Worse. There was a rainstorm. Typical San Francisco downpour." She nodded. She knew. "The three of us were shut in together all afternoon. He and I...." He tried to smile, but it was more like a grimace. "We distinguished ourselves. There just wasn't enough room for both of us in the whole godda-- in the universe. Did you ever have a tantrum?" he demanded abruptly, almost accusingly. "The kind where you kick the floor?" 

"I don't think so," she said faintly. "Did you?" 

"What's that got to do with it?" 

"Nothing." Maybe nothing. 

"I called him 'mister.'" He shook his head incredulously. "'Shape up, mister.' I still dream about it sometimes. And his mother--turns out she let me in because she thought I'd changed my mind. When she found out she was wrong...." He raised one arm and let it drop, and she thought, _That's about the only time you ever lost one, isn't it._

"I bet she never told him it was her idea." 

"What difference does it make?" 

"If he knew why you stayed away," she said with absolute certainty, "he'd have tried to find you by now." 

"Jill--" He put his hands on her shoulders, and then hugged her. Tight. "That's what _you_ would have done." 

"So would you." Smiling against his shoulder, she thought, _And so would he._ But she was not quite as sure as she had been a moment before. 

How could you be sure about someone you didn't even know? 

Well, maybe you could find out. Some Saturday afternoon at PREPDIV, maybe you could just find out. 

  
Waking, Sarah lay with her eyes closed, knowing without looking that Spock still slept beside her. He was not dreaming now. During the Time, he did not sleep long enough to dream. 

_Do you have any idea how different you are?_

On Tara, she had ended their first Time together with greenish-black stains under her fingernails, and he with reddish-brown stains under his. Cutting the nails to the quick beforehand had mitigated the problem the last Time, but it had also exacerbated the overwhelming instinctive compulsion to knead one another like a couple of nursing kittens as they mated. This Time, although the compulsion was there, both of them seemed well able to suppress it, and since her need was telepathically generated, she knew that the change originated with him. And more than one instinctive component had been suppressed. In the retrospective aftermath of other Times, the expression "fighting tooth and nail" had inevitably come to her mind.... 

He was awake. Reluctantly, as always. And through the chaos already pounding in his mind, she could perceive two thoughts, neither of which had ever been present before during pon farr. The one had been with him intermittently since they began-- a despairing cry : _Is this all that I am? Is there nothing more?_ She knew its source, for she now shared in retrospect all that he had experienced during his contact with the alien. But the other was a new thought for him, although not for her. 

_You think I'm using this as an excuse._

There was no accusation in it, but rather something else just barely perceivable. Something very like...self-doubt? 

Firmly repressing an irreverent grin, she turned her head to look at him. "At the moment, I couldn't care less." Slowly she raised herself on one elbow, knowing that the conversation could not last much longer, and determined that this time the last word would be hers. Now lying across his chest, she touched two extended fingers to the pulse pounding visibly in his throat. "Can you forgive me?" 

That was indeed the end of the conversation. But in hoping to get the last word, she had underestimated the abilities of Spock of Vulcan. As the fever once again consumed them, she was still able to perceive his answer, sparkling faintly in the midst of chaos. 

_I might._

Jim Kirk had heard it said that some people have a natural talent for being on vacation, and that others can never learn it. If that was true, then he was definitely in the latter group. 

He had encouraged Jill to attend an afternoon party at her old school, where he knew she would see many of her former classmates. It was obvious that she wanted to go, and he had pointed out that they would be seeing a lot of each other once he was at the Academy. But as soon as she was gone, he regretted that he had agreed so easily. 

The house was dead quiet and hot as hell, and it was even hotter outside; he thought briefly about taking a 'car down to the club, but he did not really want to go anywhere that he didn't have to go in the daytime. He wore the typical Vulcan leisurewear--lightweight trousers, lighterweight collarless tunic, and sandals--cycled for size but absentmindedly styled, judging by the results. He had been informed that the outfit was "suitable" for hot weather, but Spock had cautioned him privately against going outside before sunset. 

He was alone. His host and hostess were off to their jobs, neither of them having realized that Jill would be out for the afternoon. And Spock and Sarah were...otherwise occupied. 

Wandering through the wing that Sarek and Amanda lived in, he marveled once again at the attitude of the entire family toward the Time of Mating. The last Time, he had been uneasy about being a house guest; being as honest as he could with himself, he had expected to be embarrassed or titillated or both, and he did not look forward to either. But with everybody else acting as though nothing at all unusual were going on, it was surprisingly easy to forget all about what was. Strangely enough, it was as though the absent ones were there and yet not there; he had heard Amanda tell T'Ara: "You'll have to ask your mother about that," as though Sarah were simply at the hospital or even in the next room. It is the Vulcan way, he thought, and shook his head. Vulcan, yes. But Amanda and Jill were as unconcerned about the whole bizarre event as were Sarek and T'Ara. 

He read for a while; Amanda had a whole library full of real, bound books which he had often wished he had time to investigate. But now that he had the necessary time, his mind would not allow him the necessary peace. 

He would have to rename the boat. Again. 

Or maybe just give it the same old name. 

Or maybe just call it _Nevermore_ and be done with it. 

He flung the book aside and began to pace, then stopped pacing. _You're on vacation, Jim. Vacate._ Sitting down on the couch that looked like leather but did not stick to your backside, he rubbed his eyes and picked up a deck of cards that Jill and T'Ara used to play a game that boggled his mind. But they were Terran playing cards, and there was only one thing to do with Terran playing cards when you were bored out of your skull and not particularly interested in constructive thinking. Or destructive thinking, as the case might be. 

He had played for several minutes when he realized that he was not alone in the house after all. 

She had come like the shadow that Jill called her, come to stand at a short distance from him, looking over his shoulder at the cards on the coffee table. Was it "Saturday" in ShiKahr, he wondered. Or didn't the kids go to school all "week"? 

He turned, thought about saying "Hi" and decided against it, thought about smiling, decided against it, decided for it, and smiled without saying anything. She did not smile in return. 

"What is the purpose of this activity?" 

Not stiff, he thought. Not ultra-controlled, as he had seen Spock be from time to time. But no expression on her face at all. 

"It's a game called solitaire." 

Two delicate eyebrows rose. "One plays games with oneself?" 

For just an instant, he held his breath. Could she possibly know...? Then he breathed again. The question was obviously about solitaire. "Too often, I'm afraid," he said wryly. 

T'Ara stared. 

_Ball one, Jim. Nowhere near the zone._ "Here," he said. "I'll show you how." Strike. The magic words were _I'll show you how_. "Or--or better still...." He swept up the cards and shuffled them. "Let's try a game for two." 

Fascinated, she went to her knees on the other side of the coffee table. 

"This is a face card. Jack of diamonds, right? Face cards count ten, all the others take their face value except the ace can be one or eleven." Abruptly, he realized that he was doing his new-ensign number, explaining too fast just to see if he could rattle the kid. But she hadn't even blinked. "The object of the game...." Small stab of conscience. The hell with it. _The devil made me do it, Spock._ "The object of the game is to get as close to twenty-one as possible." 

After two or three rounds, she was bored to death. And it was more than clear why. 

"Ah, T'Ara--" He rubbed his nose, tying to think how to say it diplomatically. "What you're doing--most humans can't do it. You'd be accused of trying to cheat the house." 

"Is it not the purpose of this game to--cheat the house?" 

He realized that she had never heard the word "cheat" before, and put that realization aside to ponder at length. "Not exactly. You're supposed to _guess_ what the next card is." 

The eyebrows again. Unlike her father, T'Ara seemed unable to work one at a time. "That is most illogical." 

"Mmm. But it's a game of chance." _Ball two._ "You play the...odds." He paused, and grinned. "You calculate the probabilities." 

To his delight, T'Ara smiled. It wasn't much of a smile by human standards. But it would more than do for openers. 

As he anticipated, she learned the game quickly, but he had the impression that her mind wasn't on it. Not challenging enough, probably. He was trying to think what other card game he might teach her when she began to question him, hesitantly at first, about the recent missions of the _Enterprise_. Becoming more certain by the moment that she had had more than solitaire on her mind when she approached him, he described two alien worlds and a near-disastrous ion storm without eliciting more than a few polite questions. What in the universe could the kid be after? 

"Is the first officer ever a member of the landing party?" she asked finally, almost reluctantly. 

_Gotcha._ "Yes. Often." Wryly: "He's also been known to go off on his own." Mistake? he wondered belatedly. But the child's eyes were round. 

"Why?" 

"Well--" He explained about V'ger's probe and their unsuccessful attempts to gain information from it. "Your father realized that we didn't really have time to wait for--for Captain Decker to gain the probe's confidence. So he took a thruster suit and went for a walk. That's an expression we use. He went outside the ship...." The game forgotten, he told the story to a pair of the most fascinated green eyes he had ever seen. 

"Was he injured by the mind meld?" she whispered finally. 

"Yes. But it was transitory." For the first time, he realized that he was talking to her almost as though she were another adult. "He got a great deal of information, and--some insights as well." _Not my story to tell_ , he thought. "The experience taught your father a lot about his humanity. You might ask him to tell you about it." 

He had no idea whether it was the word "humanity" or the suggestion that she ask Spock to relate his experience that was the cause of her withdrawal. But withdrawal there was. She did not move, but her gaze dropped from his. And he thought, Already? 

"What's the matter, T'Ara?"  he asked gently. "Is 'humanity' such a frightening word to you?" No answer. "Does Jill's humanity frighten you?" She looked up then, searching his eyes for he knew not what. "Then why should yours? Hide it if you have to. Deny it if you must. But don't ever be afraid of it. That would be about as logical as being afraid of Jill." 

She smiled once again, thoughtfully this time, and nodded. But she had reached her limit, and looked down at the cards once more. "You may strike me again." 

Trying to keep a straight face, he coached: "'Hit me again.'" Then he too looked at the cards. "You have twenty showing." 

Raised eyebrows, expressionless face. "Hit me again." 

He shrugged and dealt the next card. It was an ace. 

They looked at one another, and it was his turn to raise his eyebrows. 

"There was a probability of 88.37 percent," she explained patiently, "that the next card would be an ace. Is that not playing the odds?" He nodded, still trying to keep a straight face and failing miserably. "What is this game called?" 

"Blackjack," said an all too familar voice from the doorway. And Jim Kirk silently closed his eyes, wondered briefly how _The devil made me do it_ would cut it with his host, and decided he didn't really want to find out. 

"It is a game of chance, Grandfather," said T'Ara, who had obviously been aware of Sarek's presence for some time. "One calculates probabilities. Ascertaining the value of the next card by other means is called cheating the house." 

"Indeed." There was not a hint of annoyance, or of any other emotion, in Sarek's voice. "Interesting." Kirk raised his eyes, but Sarek was looking at his granddaughter. He said something to her in Vulcan--gently, obviously not reprimanding or in any other way upsetting her. She rose, smiled shyly at the corrupter of her innocence, and departed on whatever errand her grandfather had developed for that purpose. 

Kirk rose to his feet. "Mr. Ambassador, I regret that I took advantage of your hospitality. I--it was a stupid thing to--" 

"It is I," Sarek interrupted quietly, "who should apologize to you, Captain." When Kirk simply stared, his mouth slightly open, Sarek went on in the same tone. "I deliberately eavesdropped on your conversation with T'Ara about her father. Being your host does not give me that right. But I cannot regret that I did it." There was a warmth in those dark eyes that Kirk had never seen there before, and perhaps even a hint of a smile. "I accept your gift of self, James Kirk. For her." 

  
_The last shall be first, and the first, last._

It seemed to Spock that his mind played increasingly often of late with phrases not in his native tongue. This morning, finally free of the plak tow, he rose, meditated, and prepared himself for the day while Sarah still slept, the biblical phrase turning slowly in his mind like a windmill on a day with almost no wind. _The last shall be first...._ This was the last day of his leave, and the first of the time after the Time. Once, very recently, it had seemed to him that this day would never come. But, like all days, it had arrived and would take its leave. And his leave with it. 

Curious concept, that. 

But the probabilities were high that this would be one of the better days of his life. It had always been so. The day or two following the Time seemed to be the only opportunity for him and Sarah to interact peacefully, free of the tension that would soon gradually overtake them again if he remained with her longer than that. It was past Time to be Vulcan, and human physiology being as it is, it was too soon to be troubled by one's humanity. 

A small piece of peace. 

He smiled faintly to himself, wondering if his mind were really as clear as it seemed to be. 

It was still barely dawn, and Sarah slept without moving--prone, her hair partially covering her face. She would probably sleep until midday, and he would return before that from his errands--first with Jill, and then with Jim. Even if Sarah woke before then, she would understand why he was gone, for both errands were her idea. 

Looking down at her while she slept as he had so often done in the past, he felt a moment's bitter pride as yet another phrase entered his mind. 

_Not a mark on her._

This Time. 

He closed his eyes briefly, fighting the self-disgust that was purposeless and therefore illogical. Even for a half human. Totally illogical. And yet it seemed that his very soul cried out: _Oh, Sarah, if we should begin to love each other as you so deeply desire, how can we bear the next Time?_

_Think. You can still think, as long as you don't panic._

_My Sarah, on Vulcan there is time for everything. Even for us._

But the first shall be last.... 

He sighed deeply, leaned over, and drew the sheet gently over her bare shoulders against the lingering chill of the desert dawn, and left her to her own little piece of peace. 

He had seen his father from the window, leaving the courtyard to walk in the garden at first light. There was a conversation that must take place today, whether he liked it or not. Although he had not spoken with Sarek since his leave began, he had learned as much of Sarah during the Time as she had of him. So it was clear that the conversation must take place, and what it would be about. 

_If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly._

Indeed. 

At his approach, his father turned away, gazing out toward the dawn across the wall at the bottom of the garden. 

_Call him "Sarek"_ said the ironic voice of his humanity. _Let yourself off the hook this time. You have the right._ Most illogical. And not particularly efficient either. "Speak, Father." 

Sarek turned, and Spock had the momentary impression that his father was surprised. _What did you think?_ he wondered sadly, silently, knowing that his father would not probe his mind even under these circumstances. _Did you think I'd run away again? How little you know me still, and how easily you judge me still._

"Have you agreed to Sarah's trip to Earth with T'Ara?" Sarek asked in Vulcan. 

"I have not. But I shall." 

"I do not believe," Sarek said expressionlessly, "that your motives are totally logical." 

The old resentment rose in him so quickly that he repressed it rather than controlled it. "It is Sarah's wish--" Then he thought of the Shadow's first act as a separate entity, and repressed his shame. 

"I do not speculate on the motives of your wife, Spock. But I should like to suggest that you examine your own motives." 

He controlled the resentment this time, snuffing it out as though it were a candle flame. It was a conscious choice. In the prevailing circumstances, that particular emotion was not only inappropriate but dangerous. 

Then he realized that his father was watching him, and it came to him that even without mental contact, Sarek knew exactly what was happening within his son, and why, and was watching him with approval. 

"Do you understand Sarah's motivation?" Sarek asked quietly. 

"Indeed." He knew that his father would not question him, that unlike most humans in similar circumstances, Sarek had been absolutely sincere when he said he would not speculate on the subject. And he felt intense relief that he did not attempt to control. _She has permitted her child to be fostered by a non-human in a non-human culture. She has permitted her marriage to be dominated by non-human values._ There was no way to express the rest of it without the idiom. _Now she needs to win one for a change._

His father still watched him. But still he did not attempt mental contact. "Does she understand her own motivation?" 

"Not at this time. But she will come to it." _She always does._

One of Sarek's eyebrows rose perceptibly, and Spock resigned himself to the inevitable question: _Is it logical?_ And to the answer he knew he must give. 

"Is it necessary?" Sarek asked. In English. 

Spock lowered his eyes, controlling, controlling. _I ask forgiveness_ , he thought. _It is I who have misjudged you._ He knew that his mother was responsible for Sarek's perception of the meaning of _necessary_ , and in that moment, he felt great love and gratitude toward both of them. But he controlled even that, knowing that an emotional display would destroy his rapport with his father, and that when he finally raised his eyes, they were serene. 

"I believe that it is." 

"T'Ara requires the Image." In Vulcan once more. Slight trace of agitation now. 

"She needs her mother more," Spock answered in English. He did not know how he knew this. But he knew. 

"She is a human child in many ways," Sarek said slowly. "But her powers are far greater than yours or mine. She is a healer." 

"Six months from now, Sarek" Spock said gently, "she will be a healer still." 

A human would have looked away, disconcerted by the change in his status. Sarek did not look away. Given the way the conversation was going, he had expected it. To do otherwise would have been totally illogical. 

"Indeed," he said expressionlessly. And since they were two Vulcans with no more to say, they took leave of one another in silence. 

His mother, Jill, and T'Ara were already in the kitchen of his parents' wing of the house. It appeared from the conversation that neither of the girls was a breakfast eater, but Amanda was not putting up with any nonsense. He stood silently in the kitchen doorway with his hands clasped behind his back, watching and listening, knowing that only his daughter knew he was there but unconcerned about eavesdropping on a conversation that was obviously not private. His chief concern at the moment was that T'Ara was ignoring his presence, even though she was aware of it. 

When he had last seen her three years ago, he had known that his presence profoundly disturbed her even though she had given no outward indication that she was disturbed. Putting himself in her place as perhaps no one else could, he understood. Biologically, he was her father, deserving of respect as a very special adult. But experientially, he was nothing to her--less than nothing, since Sarek was her Vulcan Image, the adult from whom she was absorbing her Vulcan identity as she could never do from a father almost continuously absent. Even if Spock had been fully Vulcan, there would have been a certain "logical" ambiguity in their relationship. But he was part human even as she was. Remembering all too clearly his own problems at her age, he could not fail to comprehend the reason for her emotional reaction to him, a reaction he could only describe as acute anxiety. 

At ten, Spock had had one Vulcan parent and one human parent. Conflict there was, but he had always known exactly what to expect from each of them, and exactly what each of them expected from him. But at nearly ten, T'Ara had no clear idea what to expect from her little-known Vulcan/human father, and felt considerable confusion as to what to expect of herself in his presence. Would he maintain control? And even more disturbing: could _she_? 

In some ways the empathetic sensitivity between them was even stronger than that between him and Sarah, and so he knew without intentionally trying to reach T'Ara's mind that she was quite literally afraid of him--afraid of what an unexpected display of emotion on his part might do to her control. And at the time of his last brief visit, immediately before his sojourn in the desert of Gol, he had not done much to help matters between them. 

He knew that she was unconscious of the fact that many of her mannerisms were Sarah's, and when she had quickly and expertly smoothed her hair behind her ears with both tiny hands, she had had no idea why his emotional response was so intense that even she could perceive it telepathically. Her green eyes had flicked toward him, incredulous and terrified. Why should this half human father of hers feel such intense love for her when a moment before they had simply been discussing differential equations? The minimal confidence she had in him was shattered at that moment. Not only was he an emotional human, but he felt deep emotions for no apparent reason. 

Now, watching her from the doorway, he determined to begin again. Start from scratch, as Jim would say. It was the only logical course of action, and if one wanted something badly enough, one did whatever had to be done to achieve it. 

"You look like a goddamn visitor."

He turned quickly to look into Jim's smiling eyes. The man was incredible. Knowing him perhaps better than he did anyone in the universe, Spock was aware that his friend was still slightly embarrassed by the events of the last few days. But no one else would have known it. 

"Move, mister." Still grinning, Jim made a rapid motion with his hand. "Or get out of the way. I'm hungry." 

_Class act_. Spock stepped back and bowed slightly, hands still clasped behind his back. 

"Suit yourself." Jim shrugged and preceded him into the room, joining Amanda and Jill in their discussion of the necessity of a good breakfast. Waffles were mentioned, and there seemed to be a great deal of laughter going on for no apparent reason. T'Ara watched them, but did not join in. Sitting down next to her at the table, her father thought, _She does not know how. Do I?_ It was a question he had often asked himself. Once, on Talos IV, he had smiled at a singing plant whose voice reminded him of T'Sal, one of the few friends of his childhood. But even that seemed longer ago than it was. 

"Good morning, T'Ara," he said quietly, knowing that as a well-bred Vulcan child she must not only respond but look him in the eye when she did. 

He could barely control his surprise when she did not hesitate. "Good morning, Father." Solemn, unsmiling, but apparently not inwardly divided. And he thought about the day ahead, and how little time there was to spend with her. 

He would make time, then. If one wanted something badly enough.... 

  
It was a revelation to Jim Kirk how much Vulcans could manage to get done before the sun was really up. No wonder they all went to bed early. The day started almost before the night was over. 

Spock had already spent nearly an hour with Jill, on an excursion whose nature was far from clear to her father. 

"Sort of a cross between hang gliding and skydiving?" Kirk asked as their desert boots mushed dryly along in the soft sand. He was already sweating a little, but not uncomfortable. The sun's rays still glinted across the sand rather than beating down on it, and a soft breeze touched their faces. One thing was sure: this beat playing solitaire hands down. 

"You and Sarah perceive it as analogous to hang gliding, but it is not. The arms are not bound, and maneuvering is achieved through the use of psychic energy." 

"You think what you want to do, and you do it," Kirk translated. 

Spock glanced at him briefly, faintly quizzical as always. "In a manner of speaking." 

"And these...packs on our backs do the job? I don't think mine weighs a pound." No answer. "Are there anti-gravs in here or what?" 

"Indeed. But I need not remind you that anti-gravs do not provide maneuverability." 

Kirk grinned wryly. "You needn't, but you just did." Silence. "Come on, Spock. You weren't this grim at breakfast. Why does Sarah want me to try this? Why did you take Jill out first this morning?" 

"Do you wish me to answer both questions at once?" Spock inquired mildly. 

"Of course. What else?" Faint smile. "All right. You say Sarah and I perceive it as hang gliding, but it isn't. How does Jill perceive it?" 

"As a game," Spock answered gravely. 

"It's a sport, isn't it?" But knowing his daughter, he was beginning to feel uneasy. 

"The inappropriate practice of a sport can be dangerous." 

"Inappropriate?" 

"I took Jill out first this morning in order to determine whether her attitude has changed since I last accompanied her on a windflight three years ago. It has not." 

"Explain." 

Still walking, Spock turned a deceptively bland countenance toward his captain. "No," he said smugly. And when Kirk burst out laughing, he simply raised both eyebrows as though he hadn't the faintest idea what was so funny. 

"What the devil are we doing out here if you won't even tell me what it's all about?" 

"It will not be necessary for me to explain, Jim." Again, Spock's tone was grave. "After you have experienced windflight, I believe you will understand why Sarah wishes you to participate in the decision as to whether Jill will be permitted to pursue this activity unsupervised." 

  
They seemed to be at the edge of an overhang, but given the flatness of the ground they had traveled so far, it did not seem likely that there could be much of a drop. 

At a touch, the contraptions on their backs had literally sprouted wings several meters across. They did not seem to be hinged to the packs in any way, and apparently did not move while the wearer was in flight. Nor were they rigid. As Kirk experimentally flexed his knees, the wings bounced almost imperceptibly, so lightweight that they were almost nonexistent. They were also almost transparent. 

"Wouldn't take much to put a hole in one of these." 

"They are impenetrable," Spock assured him. "You cannot fall unless the pack is dislodged." He gestured toward the edge of the overhang, but Kirk shook his head. 

"I don't need to see how far I can't fall." Spock raised an eyebrow but said nothing. "So what do I do--just take off?" 

"Indeed." 

And so he took off--and found himself looking straight down at approximately five kilometers of nothing between him and the valley floor. 

"Ho-ly shit!" The words flew out of him before he thought them, but the wind caught them and blew them away--before Spock heard them, he fondly hoped. His stomach seemed to take off a second time, but it was back in an instant. The sensation was very like null-g, and initially terrifying because of the extreme height. But he immediately perceived the difference: no directional disorientation. The breeze caressed him; on Earth, no wind this strong could feel so gentle. And he could do anything he wanted to simply by thinking about it. 

Exhilarated beyond imagining, he thought about going over backwards in a slow spin, and went over backwards-- 

"Concentrate!" Spock dove beneath him and popped up on the other side, his face a totally unSpockian mixture of horror and delight. "Control your spin!" The wind caught his next words and blew them away. "...Out of your mind?" Could he be laughing? 

"Down is down!" Kirk rolled out of the spin and found himself prone on the wind. Like going down a kids' slide face-first at about sixty kilometers an hour. "Race you to the corner!" he shouted, and took off again. Spock, who was apparently still laughing, nevertheless deftly positioned himself and followed him. 

He had never ceased to marvel that in all the universe, there seemed to be no world where the ground appeared checkerboarded from above as it did when you took a light craft aloft over the central plains of his homeland. He had tried to describe it to Jill once: everything perfectly squared off like a piece of yellow and green giftwrap tied with white ribbons stretching from horizon to horizon. She had wanted to see it, and he had promised to take her someday. But he never had. There was no one left in Iowa whom he loved. Now, flying high over this alien world with its red crags and purple shadows, he realized for the first time that almost everyone he loved was here. 

He and Spock were unable to speak to each other now because of the wind in their faces. But he realized that they were flying rather close together, Spock slightly to his right and slightly behind, and that he would never have permitted anyone else to fly so near. The wings might be impenetrable, but they were also flexible enough to become entangled. Yet he had not given a thought to that possibility until now, and suspected that Spock had dismissed any apprehension he might have felt. It was a matter of knowledge as well as trust; each was so familiar with the other's every move that the danger was virtually nonexistent. 

When they had been walking earlier, away from the near range dominated by the gaunt Seleya, the L-langon range had seemed to be some distance away. Now they were almost upon it. Looking down, Kirk could see a natural formation between two of the foothills that looked like a gnarled keyhole. He had not yet gone into a real dive, but the movement of the air currents suggested persuasively that it might be quite an experience. No sooner had the thought entered his mind than he made a minute adjustment of the angle of his glide. 

"Jim!" 

Reflexively, without conscious thought, he readjusted and continued on course, glancing over his shoulder to see Spock shaking his head _No._ The wind was too loud for him to explain, but Kirk did not require an explanation. Personal trust aside, one of the first lessons drilled into all Starfleet cadets was that you take expert advice now and ask why later--never the other way around.   
   
   
  

"Sorry I yelled there at first." 

Seated a short distance away in the shared shadow of an incredibly complex tree, Spock looked up momentarily from the wing set he was examining. There was no smile on his face, and yet he was smiling. 

"I didn't hear anything," he said quietly, and went on with his examination. 

Remembering his fleeting glimpses of Spock's spontaneous laughter, Kirk stifled a grin, thinking _I won't tell if you don't?_ "Well, are you going to tell me why you wouldn't let me dive? Or do I guess?" 

"You may guess if you wish." 

"Downdrafts." Spock nodded. "Extraterrestrial downdrafts." Another nod. "Fatal downdrafts?" 

"Perhaps. Caution suggests that the question is better left unanswered." Now, a frown. "Jill, however, remains intensely curious about this and other similar phenomena we have encountered. It is sometimes difficult to anticipate her recklessness in time to avert it. She seems particularly drawn to the formation that intrigued you. She has commented several times that 'It would be fun to go through the knothole,' and I have been compelled several times to dissuade her." 

Kirk felt a sick lurch in his gut--not primarily because of the danger averted, but because of something much more far-reaching in its implications. "Does she obey?" 

They both knew that his question had nothing to do with conventional authority or chain of command. The Starfleet cadet who was unable to reflexively obey expert advice was a sure washout. The tendency to question in such a situation seemed to be inborn and could not be trained out, and the slightest hesitation, even the single word "Sir?", could mean the lives of an entire landing party. 

"Instantly." Spock's tone was gently reassuring. "Even as you did." Then he hesitated. "It is my belief that she would not be reckless if she were alone. It is because I am with her that she contemplates these...adventures." 

"She depends on you to keep her out of trouble." Kirk smiled a little. "Even as I did." 

Spock nodded. 

"If she were yours, would you let her go out alone?" 

"Yes," Spock answered without hesitation. 

"Why didn't you just say that?" 

"This cannot be my decision, Jim. It must be yours and Sarah's." 

"Have you told Sarah what you think about this?" 

"She knows." 

"I see." Kirk was silent for a moment. "Would you back me if I agreed with you and she didn't?" 

"No." 

"Vice-versa?" 

"No." Spock cocked an eyebrow at him. 

"Just testing the water. I haven't forgotten." Leaning back against the tree trunk, he sighed a little wistfully. "What is it--five, six years since you declined the role of intermediary? Seems like last month. And V'ger seems like yesterday." 

Spock regarded him silently for a moment. Then he asked quietly, "Have you been reassigned to Starfleet Command?" 

After another moment of silence, Kirk asked softly, "How do you do that?" 

"In the normal course of events, a one-year assignment terminates one year after it begins." 

"Totally logical." 

"Indeed." Spock continued to gaze at him soberly, the windwing forgotten in his lap. But as Kirk remembered Jill's suggestion regarding Spock's future assignment, he watched Spock's expression change: bewilderment, then incredulity. "Why are you smiling?" 

"My friend--" Kirk rose and stretched, still grinning broadly. "I'm about to make you an offer you can't refuse." He gestured toward the windwing. "Put that thing away and let's get moving. On the double. It's getting hot out here." 

  
Nobody talked at lunch, as usual. But afterwards, Kirk and Sarah remained at the table together. 

"He's playing it human on this one," Kirk informed her. She had the impression that he already knew that she was aware of Spock's opinion, but that he felt it was important that she knew his reaction to it. "He has a hunch she'll be okay." Grateful for his openness with her, she tried unsuccessfully to suppress a faint frown. "Vulcan hunch?" Kirk amended, grinning a little uncertainly. 

"Do you do that to him all the time?" she asked quietly. Her tone held more wistful regret than challenge, but she was not surprised when he bristled a little. 

"Do what to him all the time?" 

"Oh, I don't mean you personally. You, your crew, the people he spends all his time with." With her finger, she circled the area in front of her on the table and then divided it in half. "This is a Vulcan response"--she indicated one of the halves--"and this is a human one, and never the twain shall meet?" 

He sat back thoughtfully, gazing down at the table. Then he slowly raised his eyes, and they both smiled a little. 

"Not all the time." 

"Thanks, friend," she said wryly. "I really needed to hear that." Before he could answer, she leaned forward intently and took his hands in hers. "Jim--dear friend, it's Spock that we're about to trust Jill's life to. Not this half or that half." 

When he smiled, she was at first disconcerted by his obvious delight at her words. Then she realized that the purpose of their conversation had already been achieved. 

  
Jill flew alone at sunset, and her father spent the time with T'Ara, whose parents had left the house together at midafternoon and not returned. Although he was not afraid for Jill, he was uneasy in her absence and grateful for company. This time T'Ara was not interested in playing cards; she wanted to be told stories and was relatively open about it. And so he told her stories--of black cats and bad poetry, of tigers and Gorns, of monsters who craved salt and monsters mended with cement, of Abraham Lincoln and Surak of Vulcan. He was, he decided, not bad as a storyteller, judging by audience reaction. His audience was fascinated. 

When her grandfather returned, she excused herself, accepting Kirk's gift of self. He could not remember the proper answer, but Sarek, without raising an eyebrow, suggested that "You're welcome" was an appropriate response. 

He was alone when Jill burst in on him, still flying high. 

"I feel like Pegasus!" She flung her arms around his neck, and he swung her around as she clung to him. 

"The myth or the constellation?" he asked, knowing what she would answer because he had had the experience himself. 

"Both!" sp> But later that evening, she was not as exuberant. 

Spock was already in uniform as they stood together in the courtyard after dinner, and she felt guilty about asking if she could talk to him alone when she knew he wanted to spend these last few hours with her mother. But this wouldn't take long, and it was important. She now understood something about windflying and a few other things she had not understood before, and she wanted to share that insight with him since it was he who had made it possible for her to have it. 

"I almost went thought the knothole." 

His expression did not change. But I-Chaya, who had been snuffling around one of the flower beds nearby, raised his head and gave a soft moan. 

"Why didn't you?" Spock asked quietly. 

"Well, that's what I wanted to tell you about, really. It was funny, but--you weren't there to stop me, so I had to stop myself." It occurred to her now, for the first time, that she had not wanted to tell him something as much as she had wanted to ask him something. "Was that why you let me go flying alone--so I could find that out?" 

She must have seen him smile like that before, she told herself. On Tara, maybe, back before she could really remember. But if she had ever seen him do that before, it was so long ago that it made her want to laugh and cry at the same time. 

"Fascinating," was his only answer. 

Slowly she went to him and put her arms around him, turning her head so that her cheek rested against his chest. "I'm sorry I almost let you down." 

He laid his arms gently around her shoulders and rested his chin lightly on the top of her head. "Humanchild," he said softly in Vulcan, "must you also apologize for something you almost did?" 

"I don't want to disappoint you." 

"You do not frequently disappoint me." He still spoke in Vulcan, and it almost seemed as though he were quoting someone. Sarek, maybe. 

  
Spock's time with his daughter had come in the early afternoon, when the humans in the household were unable to venture outside. Together, they visited Jill's growing collection of stray animals. They were not pets, for no Vulcan animals belonged to anyone but themselves. Nor were they actual strays in the sense that an Earthhuman would define a stray. Their home was the planet, but they had chosen to remain in the vicinity of the house, apparently in order to be near Jill. 

"There are six now," T'Ara informed him as they rounded the corner of the house and looked up the hill. No animals were visible on the sun-baked angle, but both he and T'Ara knew that there was a varnth in the vicinity. It was a non-telepath, but they could smell it, even as they knew it could smell them. It smelled like oiled sunlight. "Who was the first." 

Spock nodded. "I remember Who." 

"Then came the two mandilla, and shortly they became parents," T'Ara went on. The hot wind blew her hair sideways, and she absently smoothed it behind her ears. "The varnth came next. Jill believes he will bring a mate soon." 

"Believes?" 

"He told her he would do so." 

Spock frowned slightly. "Varnth do not communicate." They were speaking Vulcan, and the verb was a Vulcan word meaning "communicate with humanoids." 

"He told her he would bring a mate," T'Ara insisted calmly. 

"Does he also communicate with you?" 

"No." 

As they began to walk slowly up the hill, the varnth appeared, sliding out from between the roots of a spreading plant and then coiling himself smoothly around one of them. He was completely transparent except for his black eyes, and they stood for a moment watching his heart beat in his tail. 

"Perhaps they will not stay until she returns," Spock suggested. 

"Who will stay. The others come and go even now." 

As though on cue, Who swooped down, perching on the tree with the varnth coiled around its roots. Who looked down and the varnth looked up. "Who," said Who, and the varnth hissed softly, his tongue shooting out half his length. There was no natural affinity between their species, but the exchange seemed friendly enough. 

"And the sixth one?" Spock asked. 

"It is a chedo whom Jill calls 'Chedo' as though that were its given name." 

"Yes." Spock smiled a little. "Has she told you why?" 

They sat down in the sand, legs crossed, the sun beating down on them. Humans would have fainted within five minutes; to them, it was a mild spring day. T'Ara got the story of the planet where her parents and Jill had lived before she was born, and her father got to watch her drink it in. Which of them enjoyed it more was questionable. 

"Was the insectoid creature the first with whom she communicated?" T'Ara asked finally. 

"Perhaps not. But she was the first to our knowledge." Spock frowned slightly once again. "Do you understand how Jill is able to communicate with the varnth?" 

"She is kylh," T'Ara answered without blinking. 

Spock controlled, and after a moment he said quietly, "Humans do not have that capability." 

"Jill has." 

Through Sarah? And for the first time in years, Spock thought consciously of the fact that his wife was not all human. Kylh--those who, like Spock himself, could communicate coherently with animals below the intelligence level of the sehlat--included only 39.47 percent of the Vulcan population. Even Sarek was not kylh. But little was known of Zarabeth's race, and Sarah's abilities, as he well knew, were a unique combination of telepathy and empathy. 

Jill's first intense telepathic experience had been with the insect on Tara. She had been less than four years old at the time. Sensitized? 

And human or not, Jim had known that the vampire cloud was going "home" to reproduce on Tycho IV. 

"And you?" he asked aloud. 

"I achieve minimal communication with Chedo and Who. The varnth is silent to me." 

Fascinating. 

T'Ara gazed at him uncertainly, not quite sure whether he approved of what she had said. He realized then that he had almost forgotten her during his inward analysis of the information she had given him. 

"I, too, am unable to communicate with the varnth," he told her. 

But she was not reassured. In fact, the knowledge that he and she had something in common did not seem to please her greatly. 

"That information is irrelevant," she said coldly. 

"Irrelevance does not excuse discourtesy, T'Ara." 

Although he had spoken gently, her eyes flashed green fire. "I am trying. That is sufficient for Mother. Why is it not sufficient for you?" 

After a moment, he said softly, "I ask your patience. I have much to learn of you, as you have of me. But...may I tell you another very short story?" She inclined her head stiffly. "When I first arrived on Earth, I shared a sleeping room at Starfleet Academy with a young human male. It was not a pleasant experience for either of us. We were often in conflict. During one of our...discussions, I informed him that I had not intended to offend him. His answer, delivered with some heat, was, 'I don't care if you didn't mean to. Did you mean not to?'" 

"That is a specious distinction." 

"I think not. However, I thought so at the time, and for many years thereafter--even as you do now." He rose and extended his hand. "Come. Your mother wishes me to accompany her to the Science Academy Hospital before T'Loreth leaves for the day, and the hour grows late." 

For a moment he was sure that she would take his outstretched hand. He knew that she wanted to. But it was too soon. She rose, all in one motion as he had, and they walked back to the house in silence. 

  
Sarah and Spock had spent the latter part of the afternoon together at the Academy hospital, the ostensible purpose being that this would give Spock a chance to meet T'Loreth. But they both knew that there was much more to it than that. She had been aboard the _Enterprise_ , and could visualize the way he spent his days there. But although he had been inside the hospital, had even been born there, the individuals and surroundings that were as familiar to her as the ship and its crew were to him were known to him only through his contacts with her mind. At first he had been hesitant, as she had expected him to be: "Will Zoe be there?" But Zoe worked evenings. And so they had gone together to the hospital to fill the eyes of his mind with her everydays. 

Now they sat together on the wall at the foot of the garden. He was in uniform again, but since he had told her of his acceptance of Jim's unrefusable offer, the fact that he was leaving again so soon did not loom large as it always had before. 

He had asked her to play for him, knowing that his mother had been teaching her for years, but never having heard her play. Now she began the Rodrigo fantasy that she had begun to learn while he was gone the first time, four long years exploring the galactic rim. "It means 'Fantasy for a Gentleman'," she explained unnecessarily, knowing that he was familiar with virtually every piece of Terran music still extant. "The first movement is a Villano. That's the gentleman's father." One eyebrow up. No program notes he had ever read had contained that information. "Listen. The theme is developed monomathematically." Stately theme, regular tempo. "The obligato answers. It sparkles, but they go well together, don't you think?" She kept her expression neutral even though the corners of his mouth were turning up. "You're supposed to say 'Indeed.'" He said nothing, but continued to smile. 

She finished the Villano, and began the second movement. "Rodrigo made a fugue out of the Sanz Ricercare. First the two melodic lines sort of walk around each other, taking each other's measure." He was nodding now, fascinated. She played on, and he watched and listened silently. "By this point," she said finally, "they're a lot more relaxed with each other, wouldn't you say?" Again he nodded, and she began the Espanoleta, the simple, lyrical melody with a trace of sadness that she had played by ear for Amanda and Jill so many years ago. 

Tonight, it did not sound sad. The initial statement of the first theme was a little solemn, but the restatement was in a higher register, speaking of hope. The second theme soared; her fingers had never run the arpeggios this easily before. When she finished the first section, his eyes shone faintly with tears. 

"There's a cavalry charge in the middle of it," she said lightly, stroking the strings. "But I don't do bugles." 

"The theme is reprised after the cavalry change," he reminded her softly. 

"Yes." She smiled, but her fingers strayed into another melody, and he cocked his head slightly. "Ah, my love," she teased him gently, "you mean there's one melody in the universe that you don't recognize?" He shook his head slowly. "Your mother says all that's known about it is that it's twentieth-century. Its origins were lost after the war. It's called 'Catavina.'" 

They both listened for a few moments, and then she asked, "Why are you so disturbed about T'Ara?" 

She went on playing softly as he repeated the conversation, the emotional content of which she had already gleaned through their link. "What did she mean--'I'm trying. That is sufficient for Mother'?" She repeated her conversation with T'Ara of a few evenings before, the guitar sighing accompaniment. He nodded, sighing too. "I was too quick to censure her, then." 

"Depends on what you mean by 'censure.' Sounds to me like she had it coming. Again." When he simply shook his head, she reminded him gently: "You and Jim will be at the Academy in three months. That's three months before we leave Earth. You and she will be able to get to know one another then." 

"Has it occurred to you that we may know one another too well even now?" 

"No. I know you both think that's a problem, but I think you're both wrong. You and she just need time together. Just like you and I do." 

She had expected some kind of withdrawal, but he simply looked at her and silently asked the question he had asked of her as she slept that morning: _How can we bear the next Time?_

She laid the melody to rest with a few quiet, final chords, and put the guitar aside. 

"Together," she answered aloud. Smiling wistfully, she took his hand and laid hers against it, palm to palm. "Oh, we might cry a little," she went on softly as their fingers interlaced and closed. "Or we might laugh a little." She hesitated only a moment ( _You think too much about making mistakes_ ) before continuing even more softly: "As long as we maintain our dignity." Her voice trembled slightly on the last word, but she managed not to giggle. 

His gaze still on their hands, he pressed his lips together and slightly inward. But try as he would, he could not keep the corners of his eyes from crinkling before he turned slightly and leaned his forehead against hers. They remained so for a few moments, and then he rose and drew her to her feet and into his arms. They held one another gently, swaying slightly from side to side, as he whispered, "My Sarah, I believe you have just achieved your most cherished ambition." 

"Shhh. If you keep talking, you'll change the subject and try to recoup." Silence. But not in his mind. "Spock--" 

"How do you define 'arrogance'?" Sly. 

"Shhh!" Now laughing helplessly, she hugged him tight and listened to him smiling--and looked up to see Jim hesitating somewhere near T'Sal. "Oh, God, that man is here again." Three months. Just three months.... 

She felt Spock's arm move outward and downward, and she realized with perverse delight that he had blithely waved away his captain--who promptly shrugged, sat down on the garden steps, and made a great show of examining the stars. 

  
On her first day back at the hospital, Sarah did not go to T'Loreth's office at the end of the day. She remained in her own, waiting for the visitor she knew she would have. 

Half an hour before the evening shift began, Zoe knocked, entered, and stood leaning against the door. "So, talk." 

"Aren't you going to sit down?" It had been a long, tiring day, and Sarah rose gratefully from behind her desk and moved to one of the two easy chairs that faced a low table. 

"Maybe I better?" Almost reluctantly, Zoe straightened and took the other chair. She looked pale and nervous in spite of her usual jaunty shell. 

"You didn't keep your promise," Sarah chided her gently. 

"Surely you jest." 

"Did you talk to Sedek about this?" 

"I talked. He froze." Zoe leaned forward. "Sarah, I love him like crazy, but I can't hack that." 

"You'll get a little help from a friend." 

"Look, he's a sweetheart since I got him to loosen up." And Sarah thought, _She's been with him for almost a year. Every day and every night._ And tried to imagine that life. "But there is no way--" 

"I don't mean physically. You'll feel everything he feels, just as strongly as he feels it. That's one of the reasons for the link." 

After a moment, Zoe said quietly, "I'm not sure I want to." 

"You won't have any choice, Zoe. That's the other reason for the link. To keep him alive. Unless you Challenge. Is that what you want?" 

"Oh, for God's sake, no!" Zoe rose and paced a few nervous paces, stopped, and turned slowly. "You sure it always works?" 

"One hundred percent guaranteed." 

Zoe grinned faintly. "Not ninety nine point something something?" Sarah shook her head. "Well--" She was looking at Sarah closely for the first time. "Except you don't look so good." 

"It's been a long day." Sarah rose, wondered what was buzzing, saw the floor come up toward her, and found herself on the couch, with Zoe taking her pulse. 

"What was that buzzing?" she asked, and realized that her mouth was terribly dry. 

"Long day is right." Zoe laid her arm down and looked at her steadily. "Did you ever faint before?" 

"I've never fainted in my life." 

"Wrong. Is your GS on beta?" 

"Yes, but--" 

"Did you eat lunch?" 

After a moment, Sarah repeated vaguely, "Lunch?" 

"Where you eat something. As in keeping yourself alive, right? Halsted, you doctors are a royal pain." 

"I wasn't hungry." 

"Are you going home right now, or do I tell T'Loreth how you passed out cold?" 

"Relax. I'm going home right now." Sarah sat up slowly, but she felt only a little light-headed. _I wasn't hungry._ Odd. Always before, she had been ravenous for the whole nine months. 

"Next thing you're going to tell me is that you forgot it was lunch time." 

"Now why would I want to tell you that?" Or anyone else. Especially not T'Loreth. _She might.... And then I wouldn't be on Earth when...._ Smiling easily now, she patted Zoe's arm. "I'm fine. I promise I'll be good. I'm glad you were here." Not T'Loreth. And not Amanda. 

  
"Why are you home so early?" Amanda asked. 

"First day back at work," Sarah answered lightly, not looking up from the travel cases she had spread on the bed. "I'm a little tired." Since she was home, it seemed a good time to begin to decide what she and T'Ara would take with them to Earth. But now that the cases were open and waiting, the decisions eluded her. It was not Amanda's habit to come even as far as the bedroom door without an invitation. Something was up. Sarah sat down, trying not to notice how good it felt to sit down, and patted the bed next to her. "Join me?" 

"Any particular reason?" Amanda moved slowly, almost reluctantly into the room. 

"That's what I was going to ask you." 

Amanda sat down, her gaze still meeting Sarah's. "You're really going to take her away, aren't you." 

"Yes. She needs to be with me now." 

"Is that what Spock thinks?" 

"He has some reservations. But...marriage is based on compromise, isn't it?" 

"A compromise means nobody's satisfied," Amanda answered quietly. "You won this one." 

"That is not what happened!" Realizing that Amanda was violating her own ethics by expressing her opinion, Sarah tried to mitigate her reaction, knowing that this must be serious. "Amanda, I admire you for playing the obedient Vulcan wife. I always have. But Spock is half human. He doesn't expect me to behave that way or feel threatened because I don't." 

"If I didn't know better," Amanda said softly, "I'd say you're a fool." Her tone was no more insulting than T'Loreth's had been when she had said _That is a stupid_ question. But Amanda's voice was not expressionless, and there were tears in her voice if not in her eyes. "Do you think I 'play the obedient Vulcan wife' because I enjoy it? It's necessary." 

"But why?" 

"Are you aware of the function of race memory during pon farr?" 

Sarah was less disconcerted by the question than by the fact that Amanda had asked it. They had never discussed the subject before. "He's terrified that he's going to die alone. Like that." 

"He?" 

"They. It's like a million-year echo." It was not something that she liked to talk about. It was the only thing about Spock that was totally alien to her. 

"Do you think that echo goes away when the fever leaves him?" 

"I'm not aware of it otherwise." 

"Sarah, I've been married to a Vulcan since before you were born, and I'm telling you it does not go away. Ever. It's part of what keeps the race extant." 

"But he's just been through it! He's safe for years!" 

"My dear, that is human linear thinking. It has about as much to do with this as logic has. We're talking about the evolution of a non-human psyche based on a non-human biological imperative. 'Playing the obedient Vulcan wife' is symbolic reassurance. I thought you understood that. I was so sure you understood it. Until now." 

Sarah shook her head slowly. "It's not there except during the Time. If it were, I'd know it. No Vulcan could conceal that." 

"No _Vulcan_ could." 

"I don't understand." 

"Humans conceal their deepest fears from themselves. If he did that, you wouldn't know about it either." 

"But this isn't a human...." Blocking something. Something he couldn't face. 

But before she could grasp the memory, it was gone. 

"He wants me to take her with me," she said quietly. "He _was_ shielding something when we talked about it. Something to do with Sarek. But he wasn't...." Blocking it. Again a memory flickered somewhere. Like an almost-forgotten dream. Not a pleasant dream. But again it slipped away before she could grasp it. "He was...thoughtful. Calm. Not upset. He just didn't want me to know about it. I think they must have talked that morning. About T'Ara." 

Amanda pressed her lips together, one of the very few mannerisms her son had picked up from her. Hurting and smiling at the same time? But when Sarah tilted her head quizzically, Amanda shook hers. Off limits. Must have been quite a conversation. 

"Do you believe I'd ever do anything that would make Spock think I wouldn't be here for him when he needs me?" She laid her hand on Amanda's as she spoke, and was deeply relieved when Amanda's fingers clasped hers. 

"Not intentionally. Of course not." Amanda sighed. "You're so _sure_ when you're sure of something." 

"Your son would have it that I have my answers when everybody else would still be asking questions." 

"Very perceptive of him," Amanda said wryly. "I couldn't have put it better myself." She withdrew her hand and patted Sarah's. "I want to show you something." For the first time, Sarah realized that she had brought a small envelope with her. "I haven't looked at these for years. They were taken while Spock and I were visiting on Earth when he was just about T'Ara's age." Flatfaxes. Except for the girls' school ID's, Sarah had not seen a flatfax since she left Earth herself. She leaned forward, eager to see what Amanda held. But Amanda seemed to freeze when she looked at the top picture. "Oh, Sarah," she said softly. "It's been so long. Even I didn't realize...." And she held out the picture. 

Except for his dark eyes and the cut of his hair, the grave child who looked back at T'Ara's mother might have been T'Ara herself. 

She examined the pictures in silence, one by one. "Where did your parents live?" she asked finally. 

"Near Boston. When they were on Earth. My father was in the Federation diplomatic service. Mother went with him most of the time." Sarah nodded. No Starfleet then. "Spock wasn't very happy there." 

"I can see that." It will be different for her. I'll make it different. "May I keep this one?" Amanda nodded, and Sarah, looking down at the picture of a child light-years lost, closed her eyes briefly. 

"Stop that." 

Her eyes flew open. Amanda had not touched her mind, and yet-- 

"Yes, it's a mistake," Amanda said steadily. "But she'll survive it just like he did. And you'll survive it just like I did." 

"I can't leave her here, Amanda. She might forget me." 

"You know better than that." 

"In my head." 

"Yes," Amanda said softly. "I remember. And I remember something else. You think you're homesick now, but you won't know what homesickness is until you get there." 

"I think I knew that. But it'll be worse for me." Smiling now, Sarah touched Amanda's hand lightly. "You didn't have you to miss. But I will." 

  
"You must learn to trust your father, and yourself--with him." 

She had controlled well when her grandfather had first spoken of her father just a moment ago, standing just below her on the garden steps so that his eyes were almost level with hers. He had been pleased with her, as he usually was, and she had been pleased with herself, which was a less frequent occurrence of late. He had been offworld for many days this last time, and she had spent more time than usual with her mother and grandmother while he was gone. With Sarek and with Jill, one always knew what to expect, which was a most stable situation. The next level of stability included Mother and Grandmother, where one sometimes knew what to expect and sometimes not. Difficult, but still stable. Or perhaps--could the English word "familiar" be more appropriate? Familiar. Interesting concept. 

After that came Jill's father, which was a curious phenomenon since she hardly knew Jill's father. Or so it seemed until he smiled at her. 

On the last level was her own father, who was not familiar at all. And yet, in some way that she could not explain even to herself, he was the most familiar of all. Most illogical. And most disturbing. 

"His mind is like yours, and yet it is not." she said aloud, having concluded that the logical way to explain her dilemma to her grandfather was by analogy with the two minds she knew best. "It is like Jill's, and yet it is not." Then she saw where the analogies were leading her, and looked up almost pleadingly. Her grandfather gazed back at her, smiling gently in his eyes and in his mind but nowhere else. 

Father could do that too.... 

"It is like mine," she whispered, and said no more. Anyone else in the universe would have expected her to add _And yet it is not._ But Sarek knew better. 

"His control is much less tenuous than you fear it might be." Her grandfather was not whispering, and yet somehow his voice was no louder than hers had been. "He can help you in ways that I cannot." 

She thought of the story about the young human male who had asked _Did you mean not to?_ with some heat. The question continued to return to her mind, almost like Who swooping down and gliding in through Jill's window. _Did you mean not to?_ had apparently decided that her mind was home. 

"His ways are human ways," she said tightly. 

"He is a Vulcan, T'Ara." So gentle. So familiar. So safe. And soon, so far away. "It is my hope that it will not take you as long to discover that as it took me."  

### Full Circle, Part 2: On Earth  


  
It had taken Jill several months to get used to being called "mister," and to calling female instructors "sir." But Starfleet regs were clear on the subject: no gender differentiation was permitted in the way any officer or cadet was addressed.

The majority of her instructors, however, were male. And it was not until her third year at PREPDIV that she had a female instructor who was anywhere near her own age. It was the custom for especially promising third- or fourth-year cadets to teach at least one class, either at the Academy proper or down in PREPDIV; J.T. had done it at the Academy, she knew, and so had Spock. So it was not surprising to her that Mister Saavik should become an instructor. After all, she was one of the few Starfleet cadets who had passed the Murphy Test with a perfect sixty.

"Murphy Test?" her mother had asked when she told her about it on the space liner. "It's a sim. You have to pilot a ConClass in and out of Spacedock, and everything that can possibly go wrong goes wrong."

"At the worst possible moment."

"Of course. What else?"

At the time of the conversation with Mother, she had not known that Saavik would be one of her instructors. In fact, she had just barely realized who "Mister Saavik" was, since Spock's half Romulan protegee apparently used an abbreviated version of her Romulan name in Starfleet. If she had, she and Mother would have talked about it. Saavik had gone to school on Vulcan for a few years between Hellguard and Starfleet, but none of Spock's family had met her. The school she had attended was on the other side of the planet. Jill had heard Mother and Amanda talking about it once, years ago, when Saavik was still in her early teens.

"Aren't you curious about her?" Amanda had asked.

"A little. But I've seen her through his eyes. I feel as though I know her almost as well as he does."

"Do you think we ought to invite her here for a visit?"

"No. I don't think she could handle it."

"My dear, being part of a family for a while might be just what she needs."

"I don't think so." Mother had been silent for a moment. "I think she'd hate us for wanting to help her, just like she hated Spock at first. And there are too many of us to work through it with her one-on-one the way he had to."

Jill had not understood what her mother meant, but had been unable to question her without revealing that she'd been eavesdropping. Then, as the years passed, she had forgotten about Saavik until this term.

At first she had been uneasy. Although almost no one knew about J.T., everybody knew that Mister Halsted's mother was married to Commander Spock, and that had been a problem sometimes. But she need not have worried. Saavik not only seemed unaware of her family connections. She seemed unaware of her existence.

The second week of class, Jill had occasion to remember what her mother had said about Saavik's not wanting any help.

Saavik maintained a determined Vulcan veneer most of the time, but there was something burning inside. Anger? Hurt? Whatever it was, was carefully controlled in the classroom. But there was something about her eyes, especially when she looked at Mister Ross and Mister Pendleton. Something Jill could not quite define. Heather and Liz were the center of a clique that even PREPDIV discipline had not been able to dissolve. How they had managed to get into the same geology class Jill could not imagine; this was the first time since first term that they had been assigned to the same class. But somehow they had managed it. And it had soon become evident that they both took pleasure in subtly baiting the instructor.

It was Jill's private opinion, shared only with her roommate, that Liz and Heather would wash out before the class moved on to the Academy. (With un-Vulcan enthusiasm, T'Kama had calculated the probabilities at 98.57 percent.) They were both from Starfleet families, both very bright. But something had gone wrong somewhere, with both of them.

Today, they had brought candy to class.

It was too stupid, Jill decided immediately. They were both much too sharp to pull a trick like that--unless there was some reason. She tried to trace the probable course of events in her mind, wondering where the psychic knife was hidden and how they would attempt to use it. Something to do with Saavik's lingering unfamiliarity with human idiom. It always was.

Better pay attention, though. Saavik was no Cameron. If she got you, she'd get you good....

Heather had placed the small roll of hard candy in her desk, in plain sight. Seeing it clearly for the first time, Jill drew in her breath and began to shuffle Vulcan vocabulary in her mind. This wasn't dumb. It was sick. Somehow, Saavik had to be warned.

"Mister Ross," the instructor said evenly, "what is that object on your desk?"

"It's just candy." As Saavik moved toward her, Heather met her gaze coolly, her arm moving slightly to nudge Liz. She had guts. Give her that. It was not until Saavik stood between Jill's desk and hers that Heather smiled and asked brightly, innocently, "Have a cherry, Mister Saavik?"

"Do not respond," Jill said quietly, in Vulcan. "Either answer is a trap."

Saavik turned slowly until her eyes met Jill's. Smokey. That was the word. Smokey with contempt.

"I have lived among your kind for three point two five years, humanchild," Saavik answered, also in Vulcan. "I neither require your assistance nor welcome your interference." Still slowly, she turned again to Heather and Liz, looking calmly from one to the other. When she spoke again, it was without emotion, and in her usual unaccented Standard. "I suggest that you retain your cherries for those who may appreciate them. I understand that it is an acquired taste." Drawing herself up yet a little straighter (if that were possible), she turned away and moved toward the front of the room.

Smarting with silent fury at Saavik's rebuff, Jill nevertheless found it necessary to press her hand to her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. When Heather, scarlet-cheeked, hissed, "Butt out, Jill. Whose side are you on anyway?", she managed to whisper sweetly, "Better not sneeze, Heather. I think your head might be off."

"You will both be silent." This from Mister Saavik. And they were silent for the rest of the class period.

As her classmates moved out, Jill was not surprised to hear the instructor say, "Mister Halsted, please remain." Attempting to stand as straight as her instructor did, she faced Saavik squarely, eye-to-eye. _So what do you do for an encore, mister?_

There was no anger in those gray eyes now. Instead, Jill saw bewilderment that was almost confusion.

"Why did you do that?" Almost like T'Ara would have said it. And for the first time Jill thought consciously, She's like a little kid in some ways.

"I thought you needed help," she answered without thinking. Without remembering what she had overheard Mother say to Amanda all those years ago.

It seemed that there was almost an explosion behind Saavik's eyes. "I don't need your pity, Earther!"

"Screw pity!" Jill wondered briefly what J.T. would say if she got canned. But she was too angry to care. "If you think that was pity, you haven't learned _anything_ fr-- since you left Hellguard."

"Mister, you are out of order!"

"Yes, sir. I stand corrected, sir. But so are you. Sir." When Saavik seemed to be holding her breath: "Request permission to speak freely, sir."

"Your request comes after the fact, Mister Halsted."

"Yes, sir. Request perm--"

"Granted."

"I _felt_ for you. They wanted to laugh at you with you not knowing why they were laughing, and I _felt_ for you. Can't you understand that?"

Saavik simply stared. The answer, Jill realized in despair, was all too clear. Then: "Is it your pleasant fantasy that no one has ever tried to humiliate me before?" Now, for the first time, a twisted, bitter smile, one that did not touch her eyes. "The probability is high that it is you who are inexperienced in this phenomenon."

"No, sir. I'm not."

"Explain." Faint surprise. Faint interest.

"I had a friend. I called his father stupid, and he said 'Not stupid enough to fuck animals.'" Perversely, she repeated the Rigellian verb that Charlie Harris had used. No way to go but up. "He meant my mother."

"What did you do?"

For the first time, Jill almost looked away. The aura of bloodlust was almost joyful.

"I shoved his face in the dirt until he almost quit breathing. Then I let him up and he ran away."

"He did not attack you? Why?"

"I was angry. I scared him."

"How old were you?"

"Twelve."

"How old was he?"

"Twelve."

"Then he was the stronger...." Utter disbelief. "Why didn't you kill him?"

Something J.T. had once said to her about humankind came unbidden to her mind. "I chose not to kill that day. We all have that choice."

"Did Spock teach you that?" Saavik bit her lip. Anger. At herself this time.

"No. Sir. It was...a friend of his. Admiral Kirk."

"A human?"

Jill inclined her head slightly. "Indeed." _Don't smile_ , she told herself. _Smile now and it'll be your head that's off._

"It would be...interesting to serve with such a man." Saavik turned slowly and moved toward her desk, and Jill thought, _Uh-huh. That_ would _be interesting._ And permitted herself a very brief smile while Mister Saavik's back was turned.

Saavik sat behind the desk, straight up as usual. Jill stood, almost at attention, and returned her gaze. After a moment, she said, "Request permission to go to my next class, sir. I'm late."

"I am aware of that, mister." Silence. Smokey stare. Dominance games. Humans played them for pleasure, Vulcans played them for reasons, but Romulans obviously played them for keeps. Jill stared back. Finally: "Dismissed."

"Thank you, sir." Jill turned and left the room, wondering how Mister Saavik would treat her tomorrow.

Tomorrow, Mister Saavik treated her as though she had never seen her before.

  
Three days later, she said at the end of class, "Mister Halsted, please remain." Wondering what she had done this time, Mister Halsted remained.

"You may sit down," Saavik informed her. When Jill had seated herself at one of the desks in the front row, Saavik commenced to stare at her again, but this time it was not a game. There was speculation in it. "Are you kylh?

"How did you--?"

"Your xenobiology instructor believes that you may have this capability, on the basis of certain experiences you have relayed to her."

Jill's mind ran quickly through several possibilities, and she decided it was highly unlikely that Saavik and Gort had actually had a conversation on the subject. Gort was a Tellarite who talked a great deal in a very loud voice. Damn. If you didn't get talked about for one thing, it was something else.

"Mister Gort wouldn't have said 'kylh,'" she said aloud.

"You are correct. It is I who have used that term. The extrapolation was a logical one. Have you ever been tested?"

"No, sir."

"Would you like to be?" Feigned indifference. Jill was sure it was an act. Saavik was fascinated.

"I--why are you...sorry, sir."

"I find the phenomenon interesting," Saavik said slowly, carefully. "I am kyhl myself. I have speculated on the possibility that you and I might investigate your capabilities." She hesitated. "Together," she said finally. Reluctantly. Expectantly.

And Jill felt the same slight nausea that she had felt on the day of the incident she had described to Saavik. _It's because I almost killed somebody,_ she thought. _You feel like you have more in common with me than anybody else here because I almost killed my best friend when I was twelve years old._ And yet--

 _I chose not to kill that day._

"Very good, sir," she said quietly. "I think it would be an interesting project. For both of us."

  
The testing, like most Starfleet tests, consisted of programmed simulations. The dog holo thought like a dog. The cat holo thought like a cat. The Vulcan animals were the most realistic of all. The programmer had obviously been a Vulcan. Some of the animals from other worlds tended to think a little like Vulcan animals of similar species. Some of the lesser known animals tended to think a little like Vulcans.

"There's no varnth," Jill said midway during the second testing period.

Together they made a varnth holo, with his heart beating in his tail. But neither of them was a programmer. So T'Kama was enlisted to program the varnth thinking--with Jill's assistance, since T'Kama was not kylh and Saavik had never been able to communicate with a varnth.

When Jill had demolished all the tests, she began to create holos composed of more than one animal.

"You are playing, Mister Halsted," Saavik informed her disapprovingly. But she seemed disinclined to interfere. In fact, she seemed to enjoy watching.

"Yes, sir," Jill answered absently. She touched a wrong key, and the mandilla with Who's face broke in two and dissolved in the air above them. "Damn," Jill said softly, and began to recreate the creature she had named a Whodilla in her mind.

"Why do you say that?"

"Makes me feel better." Jill glanced up. "Sorry, sir."

"Why does it make you feel better?"

"It's hard to explain. You should try it sometime. Sir." Saavik said nothing, and Jill kept her eyes on the console. When she had made another Whodilla, she sent it flying around the lab. Then she programmed a voice for it.

"Am I Who?" it said. "Who else am I?" And Jill laughed.

"Why is that humorous?"

"It's impossible. I mean--there is no such creature, but it's just enough like.... Well, you hadda be there, I guess."

"I was required to be present--?"

"No. No." Sighing, Jill wiped the Whodilla. "It's just an expression, sir. It means--I can't explain what it means."

"There is a great deal about humans," Saavik said thoughtfully, "that cannot be explained."

It was almost dark when they left the lab together, and most of the cadets were in the mess halls and recreation areas. They stood together under a tree, facing one another in the gathering shadows. Pacificside, Sol hung almost as red as 40 Eridani. The wind chilled them a little, for it was not the hot wind that they were both used to.

"Please explain once more," Saavik said softly, intently, "why you attempted to come to my assistance."

"I felt for you. I tried to help you protect yourself because I thought they could hurt you. I was wrong, but that doesn't change anything."

"This is what humans call compassion?"

"I guess so."

Saavik's eyes narrowed. Trying to get her mind around it, Jill thought. She looked like that when she was trying to communicate with the varnth holo.

"I accept your gift of self, Jill Halsted."

In spite of herself, Jill smiled. "The obligation was mine...Saavikam."

"You are bold," Saavik said softly.

"Yes, sir."

Their gaze held for a moment, and it seemed to Jill that Saavik smiled a little, and that this time it did touch her eyes.

"Good night, Mister Saavik. Sleep well." She cocked her head slightly, and when Saavik nodded her dismissal, she turned and walked away. When she had rounded a building corner and was out of Saavik's sight, she gave a little skip and ran the rest of the way to the dorm.

One thing about Earth. If you felt good and wanted to run, you could do it just about any time.

The three children sat on the floor with the great black dog, Robbie and Stevie tussling with each other and with Cal, T'Ara watching, watching as always. Sarah knew that her daughter had already established communication with Cal; the dog kept turning his head to give T'Ara speculative glances as he never did with the beloved children who owned him. But she did not seem to want to touch him now, when the other two were playing with him.

"He won't hurt you, honey," Mary said gently. She and Chris sat close together on the couch, his arm around her shoulders as it invariably had been since the three of them were sixteen together. Affectionately amused as always, Sarah nevertheless felt obscurely detached from them, as she had been since her arrival on Earth several weeks ago. These two were as familiar to her as memory itself, and yet they seemed more a part of the new and challenging configurations of her life here than of their common past. The time between has been too long, she thought. But it was more than that. The place between was too much a part of her, as it was of both her daughters. She had never sensed that Jill felt out of place at PREPDIV, but here in Chris and Mary's apartment she seemed restless, and had wondered out on to the balcony alone--probably to get warmed up, Sarah thought with a little shiver; the breeze off the Bay was crisp, but the sun shone brightly now that the fog had burned off for the day. T'Ara had apparently learned to control the slight shivering that had plagued her constantly at first. But when she turned toward Mary now, she seemed to be looking at her from a great distance.

"I know," she said. There was no arrogance in it. It was simply a statement of fact.

Chris smiled encouragingly. T'Ara seldom spoke in his presence, and unlike his alter, he was equally interested in both of Sarah's children. "How do you know, T'Ara?" he asked now, genuinely curious.

Jill had come to the doorway of the balcony, and for a moment her eyes met Sarah's. Slight shrug, slight smile on Jill's part. What will be, will be.

"Caliban told me," T'Ara answered politely.

There was a moment's silence except for the giggling little boys. Then Chris asked, "How did you know his name is Caliban? The boys never call him that."

"He told me."

Sarah glanced at Jill, who grinned faintly and rolled her eyes upwards.

Both Chris and Mary stared at T'Ara for a moment, and then, almost simultaneously, turned their eyes to Sarah. Chris seemed slightly disturbed, but Mary was smiling affectionately. _Cute_ , she mouthed silently.

Jill turned abruptly and returned to the balcony, leaving her mother to cope alone with their silent shared laughter. Keeping a straight face with difficulty, Sarah explained that _He told me_ was the literal truth.

  
"You're spoiling her, you know."

Sitting on a high stool next to Mary's kitchen counter, Sarah looked up from the potato she was peeling. Mary refused to cycle for company, but she was not adverse to letting company peel the potatoes, and Sarah was not averse to doing something useful while sitting down. Strangely enough, a shorter working day and lower gravity seemed to make her more tired rather than less so. "How do you mean?"

"You take everything she says so damn seriously," Mary answered lightly.

"So does she."

"That's the point, luv. You don't know where to draw the line. Letting her stay home from school on Friday was a big mistake."

"She wasn't feeling well."

"Um-hmm." Mary smiled wryly and shook her head. "Like when you and I and Chris weren't feeling well the day we built the tree house. What were we--ten? Eleven? Except _we_ got caught. What did she do all day?"

"Watched the Tri-D, I think."

"Lovely. What I can't figure out is what it is that you think you owe her."

Sarah met her gaze steadily, smiling a little. "Very perceptive. As usual. But not relevant to this. She couldn't cope, Mary. She's been in school here three weeks, and this was the first time she couldn't control her feelings about it."

Chris had come to the kitchen door, and now accepted a half spoonful of leftover frosting from his wife, kissing her lightly on the lips. To Sarah, he said, "The word is 'malingering,' Doctor."

"No. At All Worlds, we call it 'needing personal time.' Remember, Doctor?"

"Five'll get you ten she'll 'need personal time' again on Monday."

Sarah smiled with more nonchalance than she felt. She had been thinking the same thing.

"Trouble with you, Doctor" Mary informed her, "is that you never could resist the chance to try to heal somebody." And they were off again. The reminiscing seemed compulsive at times, as though the three of them were reaching back through the years for something that still eluded them. But it worked. Still licking the spoon, Chris reminded them about Sarah's collection of stray cats, and her insistence, from the age of eight, on sitting with anyone in the family who was sick. "'I'll make you tea and tell you stories,'" he quoted with a wink.

Mary glanced from one to the other, and Sarah saw Chris tighten his arm around his wife's shoulders. Telepath he was not, but all three of them knew that Mary occasionally felt shut out when the brother-sister bond became too evident. If they had really been brother and sister, Sarah suspected, it would have been different. But the fact that Chris-and-Sarah went back further than Chris-and-Mary seemed to hurt Mary in some way that even Sarah had never been fully able to understand.

And so she left them alone together in the kitchen, and returned to the living room just in time to witness a silent exchange between her daughters that intrigued and puzzled her so much that she had difficulty refraining from monitoring it.

The two boys had turned on the Tri-D, forgetting about Cal and T'Ara, who remained close to one another, T'Ara sitting with her arms around her knees and Cal with his great black head resting on his outstretched front paws. Almost casually, T'Ara extended her hand toward his head. But Jill, who had once again returned to the balcony door, moved quickly to them, knelt and laid her own hand on the dog's head before T'Ara could do it. Cal raised his head and looked searchingly at Jill, but she was not looking at him. Her gaze held T'Ara's, and Sarah, still trying to shield against them both, perceived surprise and bewilderment on T'Ara's part and apologetic determination on Jill's. She was not smiling.

  
Lying flat on the floor in her pajamas in the small room she shared with T'Ara when she stayed overnight, Jill slowly raised both legs and pointed her toes at the ceiling, then lowered them to the floor again. All the sleeping rooms on Earth seemed so small. No wonder T'Ara felt like she was sleeping in a box with pale green walls.

"He's got me, doesn't he?" she asked, and began to repeat the exercise.

Sitting on her bed, T'Ara looked up from the chess move that Jill's cousin Peter had sent her on paper. They had never met, but they had been corresponding for almost five years. This was their third game. Jill had almost won the second one. As expected, T'Ara simply raised her eyebrows.

"Forget it." Jill rolled over, sat up, laid her arms on the foot of her bed, and rested her chin on her hands. "Do you think Mother's feeling all right?"

"No."

"Do you think she's just tired like she says?"

"No."

"Why doesn't she tell us the truth?"

"It is her truth now," T'Ara said softly, "that she is 'just tired.' When it becomes otherwise, she will tell us."

Jill sighed, rose, moved to her own bed, and lay down on top of the covers.

"Why did you stop me from setting Caliban free?" T'Ara asked.

"What's 'free'?"

"He does not belong to them," T'Ara said tightly. "He belongs to himself. He cannot even run. They leash him to themselves when they take him outside. He told me. He wants to run."

"What were you going to tell him to do?"

"They could not hold his leash if he wished to break free. He is stronger than they are." Incredulously: "He doesn't even _know_ that."

"Dogs don't run loose in San Francisco. During the Post-Atomic Horror, there were wild dogs everywhere. In packs. They killed people. Little kids couldn't go outside alone for years. Now there are people who kill dogs that are running free. Especially big, strong ones. It's illegal, but nobody does much to stop it."

T'Ara swallowed. "That is not logical."

"It is to them."

"Then what is _right_?"

"It's not what's right, shadow. It's what's better. For Cal. This is a different world." Jill got up and laid her hand on her sister's shoulder. "Lie down now. I'll tuck you in. No, come on." T'Ara lay down, and Jill tucked her in and then sat on the edge of the bed. "You should tell Mother about how the fog and the cushion scare you." T'Ara turned her face away. "If you can't control it by yourself, you need somebody to help you."

"She cannot help me." It was barely a whisper.

"Not if you don't give her a chance." Silence. But T'Ara seemed to relax a little. After a moment, Jill said softly, sing-song, "Good night, little one."

The corners of T'Ara's mouth turned up slightly. Very slightly. But definitely up.

  
On Monday morning Sarah called the hospital, informed the central computer that she would not be in that day, drew her shawl around her shoulders, and went to T'Ara's room. _If you can't lick 'em, join 'em._ Besides, it felt good to play truant. She hadn't done that since the tree house, and this time there was nobody to come and catch her at it. Being a mature adult had its compensations.

T'Ara had turned on the light although it was not yet time for her to get up. With the fog completely covering the windows, it might have been the middle of the night. Except that you couldn't see the stars. Or even the sky. The windows were completely black. Like being in the belly of a whale. Damn highrises.

T'Ara met her gaze without expression. Controlling.

"How do you feel this morning, little one?"

"I am well." Controlling. Tight. Could something be frightening her?

"Good. I'm going to play hooky today." Sarah explained about playing hooky. T'Ara stared, no longer controlling.

"Why?"

"I thought it might be fun." Eyebrows approaching the hairline. "Would you like to join me?"

"What shall we do?"

"Well--to start with, I thought I might make you tea and tell you stories."

"What stories?" T'Ara whispered, fascinated. As her mother sat beside her on the bed, she sat up slowly. If anything had been frightening her, it was gone now.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe about when I was a little girl. Are you cold?"

"No." She was shivering slightly, but she had apparently not noticed until her mother did. "Yes."

"Here." Sarah laid her arm around the child's shoulders and drew the shawl around both of them. Marvelous thing, it was. Almost magic. It seemed to weigh nothing, yet it was the warmest shawl she owned.

"Where did you get this?" T'Ara asked immediately. She had already stopped shivering. As if by magic.

"Your father sent it to me about a year ago, not long after he went back to Starfleet. He told me the name of the world where he found it, but I'm afraid I've forgotten. The green is just the shade of Tara's sky, and the blue is the shade of Earth's sky." The child looked up at her, smiling faintly. "Isn't it?"

"Indeed." Still the faint smile. And Sarah thought, _My eyes. Why didn't I notice it before?_ "And the gold?" T'Ara asked.

"There's no gold in it."

T'Ara pinched a piece of the material between her fingers and held it up to the light. There seemed to be a slight sheen to the material, but no gold. "See?"

"No. I can't see it."

"A Vulcan would see it," T'Ara said gently. No arrogance. Just a statement of fact. 

After the sun came out, they walked in it together, soaking it up. Since they were used to higher gravity, walking here was easy except for the hills. The building they lived in was near the edge of the complex, and they soon left it far behind, walking toward Mount Tam.

"That is a mountain on this world?" T'Ara asked incredulously.

"Not really. It's just called Mount Tam."

"That is not logical." Sarah shrugged. "Shall we climb it?" T'Ara asked hopefully.

"Ah--no. Not today." At the thought, Sarah felt a wave of fatigue. Silly. It was barely noon. "Let's go shopping."

"Shopping?"

"Another kind of human recreation." Blank. "You go looking through the mall for something to exchange credits for." Blanker still, if that were possible. "Take it on faith, little one. Just this once?"

"Faith?"

"Come on. It's fun. You'll see."

And it was.

They returned at sunset, laden with small purchases that would make their apartment theirs instead of a copy of fifteen thousand others just like it. Sarah could remember being this happy on a few rare occasions, but she could not remember ever being this tired.

As they entered the lobby of their building, she noticed that T'Ara paused just inside the entrance and stood still for a moment, her feet slightly apart. An expression of strain, almost of fear, passed across her face and then was gone. Controlling again.

"What is it?" Sarah asked gently.

"This structure floats," T'Ara said expressionlessly. Still controlling.

"Floats?" And then she remembered. Massive anti-gravs. The quake cushion. By law, no building near the San Andreas fault could be constructed without one. It was the perfect solution to a centuries-old problem, especially since no human could perceive the presence of the cushion even in a high rise, where the anti-gravs were much stronger and the cushion much thicker. Almost a millimeter, it was said. "Oh, T'Ara--can you feel it floating all the time?"

"Indeed."

"Why didn't you tell me? We can move to another apartment somewhere else."

T'Ara tilted her head slightly to the side. "After we have played hooky to purchase a large number of decorations for this one? That would be most illogical. Come." She took Sarah's hand in hers. "Are you too tired to 'fix the place up' now? I think that would be fun." And she smiled.

It was not until later that evening that Sarah remembered that T'Ara had known she was tired even though she had not said so aloud.

  
Reconstructed cable cars were the newest thing in San Francisco. Jill could not imagine why such an antiquated means of getting around the city would appeal to anyone. But there was an entire network of them, grinding up and down the hills and along the edges of all the shopping malls. People thought they were quaint. Well, Mary thought they were quaint, and Mary almost always thought what everybody else thought.

This Saturday afternoon, Jill took a cable car to the outskirts of the city because she still had some thinking to do before she got there. One thing she still had to figure out was what she would eventually tell Mother about why she didn't come to the apartment right away this morning as she had been doing for a month, since the beginning of the term. Mother wouldn't ask, but she'd wonder, and if you didn't watch it, she'd figure it out. Not that there was any way she could figure this out. But just the same.

The other thing she had to figure out was what she was going to say when she got where she was going, wherever that turned out to be. It was a little like the sims where you were flying blind.

When she arrived at the university, she still hadn't figured out either one.

It was cold, at least by Vulcan standards. About twenty Celsius, she thought. She had exchanged credits two years ago for something called a p-coat; it was getting just a little tight now, but it still fit over a sweatshirt and the collar felt really good turned up against the wind, even if you did have to put it up under your hair in the back. Or you could put the jacket on over your hair, but that felt like being tied up. Or you could braid one braid, which is what she had done this afternoon, and put the braid over your shoulder. She had seen Mister Saavik with one braid once in a while, so now it didn't feel like you were a little kid or something, with your hair in pigtails.

But even though it was cold, and even though things like the weather never did feel quite right on this world, it was still beautiful. She had never seen sunshine like this, and from what she had seen when they took Raven to Seattle-Portland and Baja, this kind of sunshine was unique even on Earth. Mellow yellow was the way she thought of it, especially in the fall. As she walked across the campus, everything looked mellow yellow.

The computer in the lobby of the administration building was anything but mellow.

"Please state surname and given name, surname first."

She took a deep breath. If J.T. ever found out.... "Marcus," she said firmly. "David."

"Initial character identification is required."

Jill stared at the vid, on which was printed the same words that the computer was saying. "Oh, come on. How do you stand yourself?"

"'On O'Cum' is not a student at this university." There was a whirring sound, as though the com were clearing its throat. Or its brain.

"What kind of a loop is that?"

"'Kinduva What' is not a student at this university. Do you wish to begin again?"

Jill opened her mouth, but the thing might go infiloop if she called it that. "Affirmative."

"Please answer yes or no."

This time she could not resist her first impulse. "Maybe."

"Last name alone is not sufficient. Please answer yes or no."

"Yes, dunsel!"

"Please state surname and given name, surname first." And she did. The thing blathered out all the information she wanted, including the fact that David was a Ph.D. candidate in the graduate school, which she already knew.

Some security. At the Academy, personal information on cadets was accessible only by Starfleet personnel.

  
He lived near campus, in an old house with other students. She knew that his mother no longer lived in San Francisco. So with any luck, he would be at his student address this weekend.

There was nobody home.

The doorbell took her picture and asked her to leave a message, but she didn't have the heart. So much for the little adventure. Then, turning away from the door, she saw that there were three young men shooting baskets in the park across the street.

Later, she would wonder why she slowly crossed the street and sat down under a big tree, her arms hugging her knees, to watch them. The wind blew across the grass, and she was cold. But she sat close to the tree where no one would notice her, and watched for almost half an hour. By that time, she knew that her little adventure had not been in vain. She didn't know how she knew. He certainly didn't look a whole lot like J.T. Too skinny for one thing. But he sure didn't know how to take it easy. By the time the other two left, one of them calling him "Dave," he had out-scored both of them by half. And after they had gone, he went right on practicing jump shots by himself. Didn't know when to quit, either. He was breathing hard and dripping sweat, even in this temperature.

She got up then, and began to walk slowly toward him, still trying to figure out what to say and still not succeeding. The whole thing was so dumb. You didn't just go up to somebody you didn't even know and say....

He'd seen her. One more jump shot, then another glance over his shoulder.

 _You look sixteen_ , she remembered. _Maybe even seventeen._

Well, that would be okay for openers.

He came toward her, dribbling the ball, breathing hard, his hair wet but mellow yellow in the sunshine. "Hi."

"Hi. Are you David Marcus?"

He caught the ball and stood still with it in his hands, then began to bounce it slowly, still breathing too fast. Startled, but still smiling. "Uh-huh. Who're you?"

"My name's Jill." It suddenly came to her exactly what she was doing, and how complicated this could get if it didn't go right. What had she been thinking of anyway? She looked away, wondering if she could just call the whole thing off. This was starting to get a little scary.

"Do I know you?" he asked.

She looked back at him again. Nice smile. Not like J.T. But nice. It would go right, she decided. He would feel the same way she did. Curious. And, well-- "Not exactly. But--Jim Kirk is my father."

The ball shot off to the side, and hands grabbed her by the shoulders. "Is this some kind of a _joke_?" He shook her once, so hard that her head snapped back on her neck. Terrified, she reflexively knocked his hands upwards and brought her knee up, but he was just a little too far away. Her knee caught him on the inside of the thigh, knocking his leg out from under him. He went down half kneeling, and she backed away, thinking of Charlie. _Why do I have to keep hurting people I want to care about?_

He looked up at her sideways, now almost gasping from exertion and shock, sweat-stained T-shirt clinging damply to his body, and shook his head slowly. "God, I'm sorry." If she had been afraid of him just a moment before, she could not be afraid of him now. Not much, anyway. "I didn't mean to scare you. I'm really sorry." He got to his feet slowly, staring, and began to walk toward her. When she stepped backward, he stopped and just stood there staring. Staring. Still breathing like he'd been in a fight. Or like he was trying not to cry. "What do you _want_?"

"I thought I wanted to meet you."

He started to back away, and for a moment she thought he was going to cut and run and wished he would. But he didn't. He picked up the basketball, moved over to drop it into a container with other balls, moved again to pick up his sweatshirt and tie the sleeves loosely around his shoulders, all the time staring, staring, looking away only to find the ball and the container and the sweatshirt on the ground. Fascinated? Horrified? Both? Both.

When he came toward her again, slowly this time, she kept herself from backing away.

"What did you say your name is?"

"Jill Halsted."

He smiled then, very faintly. She didn't like that smile at all. But it didn't stay long.

He took a last deep breath, like a sigh. "You want some coffee or something?"

  
The game room was obviously a student hangout, judging by the decor and the menu. But there were only two other customers, a couple playing a hologame at one of the other small tables. David cycled the coffee and came back to sit opposite her. He wasn't staring at her anymore, anyway. In fact, he seemed to have a hard time looking at her. "Where do you live?"

It was the first time either of them had said anything since the park.

"Here. In San Francisco."

"Does your mother live here too?"

She nodded. "She's a physician on staff at All Worlds."

Again the faint smile she didn't like at all. "He's got a champagne appetite. I'll give him that."

She couldn't answer. There were no words in her mind to answer with.

Now he leaned his arms on the table and hung his head a little, looking at her sideways like he had after she kneed him. "Who told you about me?"

"He did."

Startled again. "Is he here now? I thought he was...." Vague circling motion toward the sky.

"We were living--" Suddenly she didn't want him to know anymore about her. "Somewhere else."

"On another planet?" She nodded, and he looked down abruptly into his coffee. Like hers, it was untouched. "He came to see you there?"

Sometimes she wished she couldn't tell how people were feeling. This was one of those times. There was so much pain inside him. "He came to see _you_ once. He told me about it."

"I didn't even know he was-- who he was then. And he didn't come to see me. He came to see my mother." Anger? No. Rage. "'Time for your nap, David.' Time to play dead, David. Except I didn't." Remembered rage.

"Did _he_ tell you to take a nap?" No answer. "If he didn't come to see you, why did he come in the dayt--."

"He came to see my mother. Yours too, I bet."

"She's married now."

"I got news for you, sweetheart. That wouldn't stop him."

"Shut up." The two holos at the other table buzzed in the silence as they glared at each other. "You don't even know him."

"Whose fault is that?" Odd. It wasn't even very loud, but it sounded like a wail. In memory, she heard her own voice as though it were yesterday: _Everybody is always somebody else's something. Never mine._ Without thinking, she reached toward him. But he pulled back as though he were afraid of her.

"Did your mother ever tell you that he doesn't come around because she told him to stay away from you?" she asked.

Briefly and succinctly, he told her exactly what kind of a lie he thought that was.

 _Not from you, mister. Especially not from you._ "You sound just like somebody I used to know. He was twelve years old."

"Why are you here?" Again he seemed to be almost crying. Pleading. But for what? Get away from me? Stay with me? Both? Both. "What do you _want_ from me?"

"I wanted to know my brother." Trying to keep her own voice from shaking, she pushed back her chair and got up, knocking over her cup and spilling the untasted coffee all over the table. One more mess she wouldn't be able to clean up. Ever. "I didn't know you'd be hurting like this. I'm sorry." And she ran, trying to remember where she could get the cable car and not succeeding.

She was in the middle of a shopping mall before she had blinked the tears away. Damn. Other people could cry without having to blow their noses all the time. She was in the act when she realized that he had followed her, running too, and then slowed down a little way behind her. She began to walk again, but he caught up with her. They walked on through the mall and out into a tree-lined avenue before he said anything.

"You want to call a truce and start over?"

Glancing toward him, she saw that he was smiling a little, but not like the last two times. Reluctantly, she smiled a little too, and then looked away.

"All right." After all, who started this anyway? And it couldn't get much worse. Could it?

She asked him about his studies as they walked on toward where she now remembered the cable car had stopped to let her off. It was too soon for the other thing again. They'd get to it, but it was too soon right now.

He was going to get his degree soon, he said. As soon as he defended his dissertation. Then he and his mother and some other people were going somewhere he called Spacelab. The Federation grant, she remembered, and wondered briefly why both he and J.T. said absolutely nothing about what the grant was for or where this Spacelab was. Classified?

"What did you write your dissertation on?"

"Nothing you'd be interested in." He seemed...embarrassed. "It's an unstable substance." And she thought: _Just like you._ "My committee hasn't been very happy with me. Where do you go to school?"

"I think maybe you don't want to know."

He glanced at her sharply and then away again. "Did he get you in?"

"No. I scored high in all the aptitude sims, and I asked...a family member to sponsor me." They walked on up the hill toward the cable car stop. "Does your mother know how you feel about him?"

"She knows I'm not crazy about him." Tight. Almost like T'Ara when she was controlling. Except this wasn't controlling. Cover it up and pile a lot of stuff on it. "How often does he spend time with you?"

"Pretty often. When he's here."

Lightly, bitterly: "Lucky you." But when she looked at him, there were tears in his eyes.

"David, you could--"

"If I never see that man again," he said slowly and carefully, "I'll be the happiest person in the universe."

"Just like you are now."

Their steps slowed, almost stopped. Finally he said very low, almost whispering, "Why you and not me?"

Once more. Try just once more. "My mother never told him to stay away from me."

They stopped and stood facing each other in the mellow yellow sunshine. "He's lying, Jill." Quietly this time. Almost calm.

"No."

"You think my mother's lying?"

"Did she ever tell you straight out why he never comes to see you?" He was looking directly at her as she asked the question, and for just an instant something wavered behind his eyes. Then it was gone. "Well, maybe she will someday. If she ever finds out how much you hate him." 

He turned away and began to walk again, but slowly, head down. She moved to fall into step, and they walked on. Finally he said, "I wish I couldn't remember him at all. He was...tense. Stiff. Military. You know what 'Herbert' means?" 

"I've heard it." 

"Everything I did irritated the hell out of him, and the madder he got the worse I acted. I don't know why. It just happened. Like a bad dream." 

"That was then." 

He glanced at her, alerted, confused. "You ever give him a hard time?" 

"Once." Remembering Mister Sunshine, she tried not to smile. "He did fine." 

He almost stopped walking again. "You're proud of him." 

"He's special." 

David sighed and shook his head. He wasn't even angry anymore. Not even interested enough to be angry. 

Unreal. This was like a dream. Like they weren't both talking about the same man. 

They had come to her stop, and she could hear a cable car grinding up the hill, still out of sight. 

"You said your mother's married now. Do y-- does she have any other children?" 

"I have a little sister." This time she really smiled. 

"I'm glad." Moving slowly so that he would not scare her again, he put his hands on her shoulders. "A little sister would be nice to have." 

"You could." 

"It's too late." The wistful gentleness in his voice almost made her want to cry again. "We'll be leaving for Spacelab in less than a week." 

As the cable car ground to a stop, she leaned her forehead briefly against his chin, and his hands tightened on her shoulders--the same hands that had shaken her so hard that her neck still hurt. Looking back from the window, she saw him wave, turn, and begin to walk away. She turned from the window and sat staring straight ahead, not moving until it came time to get off. 

  
It had taken Mother only a of couple hours to find out where she'd been, and with whom. It wasn't that she pressed. She just made you want to tell her somehow. And there was the neck business. It was stiff and it hurt, and Mother had said she couldn't treat it unless she knew what kind of injury it was. 

Whiplash, Mother called it. 

After T'Ara was in bed, they talked about it. 

"Do you think I should tell J.T.?" 

"Not about your neck," her mother said firmly. "What do you think David would do if your father went to see him?" 

Mother didn't look so good, even lying on the couch with her shawl around her. But she was still "just tired" and "just getting used to the new job." And there was no one to tell about it. No Amanda. No T'Loreth. No Spock--not for another two weeks. 

"Jill?" 

"Sorry. I was thinking." 

"You think he might get violent with Jim too?" 

"Mother, he didn't mean to hurt me. This is tearing him to pieces. One minute he hates J.T. for not being there for him, and the next minute he wants him there so bad you can feel him hurting." 

"You didn't answer my question. Do you think he'd try to harm Jim physically?" 

After a moment, Jill whispered, "He might. I told you--he hates him." 

"But?" 

"He doesn't know about the 'but.'" 

"I see." Her mother leaned her head back against the couch, closed her eyes, and sighed, and for a moment it seemed that she would not go on. Then, with her eyes still closed: "I just don't know what to tell you, Jill. I wish I did. If only they could get some time together, to really get to know each other...." Her voice was shaking. "There's never enough time." 

"Not while they're following such different stars." Jill stood up, rubbed her neck and straightened her shoulders. "Mother, you should be in bed too. How 'bout letting me tuck you in?" 

She got a little argument on that. But not as much as she had expected. 

  
April was not the cruelest month after all, Sarah decided. November had to have that honor. 

Rain. Day after day. Rain and fog. And cold. It made you want to stay inside and crawl in bed. At least there you could get warm for a little while. 

Chris had noticed she was tired all the time. But he hadn't said anything. He thought she was doing regular self-scans. Any physician would have thought that. 

What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. 

_If I can just hold out._ She found herself thinking it over and over as she drifted through her days. _If I can just hold out until Spock gets here._ What difference would it make? And yet she kept thinking it. Three weeks more. Then two weeks. Now one. Just one more week. 

Jill came home promptly on Saturday morning, her neck flexible and without pain. 

Little punk. Who the hell did he think he-- Good question. Very good question. _Why didn't she ever tell him why?_ And deep within, the answer whispered: _She wanted him all to herself. You remember._

On Saturday morning the sun came out, and Sarah decided to update some of her case histories. She was further behind than she had realized, she felt reasonably well for once, and Jill and T'Kama and some of their friends were going to Golden Gate Park for a picnic. Motley crew, Sarah thought, smiling fondly. All five from different races, different worlds. Where but at PREPDIV? 

She was already working at the computer in her room when she heard Jill leave the breakfast table and go into the small study where the vidphone was. Funny. She usually looked forward to having breakfast alone with T'Ara on weekends. Since their mother didn't eat breakfast these days, it was a good time for them to talk. 

She heard Jill call T'Kama and beg off from the picnic. "It's personal. No, that's okay. It's okay." She sounded impatient, a little upset. "Friends can ask, remember? I'll talk to you when I get back tomorrow night." Then another call, and Sarah remembered that Jill had said that Jim was going to be shuttled in from Starbase One for a one-day meeting. Not long enough to spend time with her, but that was okay. In a week he would be there for good. 

Just one more week. 

Jill was standing in the doorway. Lounging. Hands in her pockets. Why didn't she cycle another set of sweats? Did all fourteen-year-olds have to look like that? 

"J.T. wants to talk to you." Grumpy. 

"Why?" 

Jill shrugged, and Sarah bit her lip, rose, and went into the study. 

The 'phone screen showed her a desk, presumably Jim's at the Academy. The admiral was not in view, having stepped out of range, she supposed. _Can't wait half a minute? Thanks a lot._ She sat down at the console, folded her hands, and tried to compose herself. 

When he came back in view, she was momentarily disconcerted. Jill had told her that the new uniforms--the Big Change for which the dust covers had been prematurely trashed--was being phased in at HQ, although crews and cadets were still on interim dress code. But Sarah had been completely unprepared for the extent of that change. Becoming, though. At least to Jim. Immediately she began to picture Spock in the new uniform, her irritation submerged in imagination as the admiral glanced up once and then began to paw through the papers on his desk as though he wasn't all that sure he wanted to talk to her either. 

Distraught. Coming back to reality with some effort, she decided that if she had to describe him in one word, that would be it. The man on the screen wanted most intensely to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Didn't matter where. 

Without looking up, he asked abruptly, "What the hell does she want to do this for anyway?" 

Sarah ran her fingers across her forehead. "If you would be so kind," she said carefully, "as to tell me what the _hell_ it is that she wants to do, maybe I could answer your question. _Admiral_." 

Her hand still half covering her face, she waited. But he did not answer. Finally she dropped her hand and looked again at the screen. 

He was looking directly at her now, and she was peripherally impressed with the elegant red-mahagany monolithic effect created by the uniform and his coloring. They continued to stare at one another in silence for another moment, and then he spoke in an entirely different tone. 

"Are you sick?" 

"No." She sighed and shook her head. "Just tired. Jim, what is this all about?" 

He continued to gaze at her intently for a moment longer, and then answered almost absently, "She wants to take Raven out." 

"Alone?" 

"No. She wants to take T'Ara with her." 

Sarah closed her eyes briefly and then opened them again, half hoping that he would be gone. He was still there. "Would you let her take it out alone?" 

"Sarah, I drilled her until she was ready to jump out of her skin, and then I drilled her until she was cool again. She knows as much about that boat as I do." 

Her mouth and throat felt dry, and she swallowed. "T'Ara hasn't been drilled." 

With a small shock, she watched him shrug and grin a little. "Tell her something once and she'll remember it forever. Kinesthetic images and all." 

"How can you know that?" 

Deadpan. Eyebrows up. The imitation of Spock was perfect. 

She laughed. 

"That's better." Still smiling a little, he again regarded her intently. 

Best put a stop to that. "Let me talk to Jill." She rose and began to turn away from the screen. 

"Sarah?" Slowly, reluctantly, she turned back. "Go see a doctor, Doctor. That's an order." Smiling. But he meant it. 

"I'm all right." He did not answer, simply looked at her, and she frowned, remembering. "When do you go back?" 

He rolled his eyes briefly upward and sighed. "Tomorrow morning. Sooner, if possible. Right now if it were up to me." 

"I...suppose you'll be telling tales when you get there?" 

"Hundred percent probability. Unless...." Damn the man. You knew it when he was going to win even before he told you how. "Tell you what. You promise to have a complete checkup first thing Monday morning and my lips are sealed. Deal?" She did not answer. "Do we have a deal, Sarah?" Not smiling now. 

"All right. Wait while I talk to Jill?" 

He gave her a wry, sketchy salute, and she left the room smiling again in spite of herself. 

  
"Nothing seems _right_ to her here, and she's so cold all the time. Even when she's not outside. Since I had to tell her about the DCV, just about all she thinks about is home." 

"DCV?" 

"The Dog Control Vigilantes--you remember. She was going to tell Cal to try and get free, and I had to tell her so she wouldn't do it." 

After a moment, Sarah said, "I'd forgotten about the DCV. What else?" 

"Well, she feels like the building is tipping on the cushion, and she's got this thing about the fog. It's a whale, like in Pinocchio, and she's inside-- oh, Mother! She knows it's a fantasy." 

"Are you sure?" 

"Positive. I don't think you know how strong she is. Besides, it's not logical." 

"What about this thing with the boat?" 

"She's used to being in something that flies, and we don't have to go that high. I thought I'd take her up the Columbia River and maybe climb Beacon Rock with her. It's a natural monolith, but there are trails. J.T. and I used to go up there all the time when he was here. It's beautiful, especially on a day like this. She needs to be away from here for a day. Please?" 

"Jill--" How could she say it? 

"I wouldn't take chances with her, Mother. That was just me, and I didn't understand about stopping myself." More eagerness than hurt. She wanted this so badly that she could hardly bear the thought of a no. 

"Of course you wouldn't. I'm sorry." 

"What did J.T. say about _Raven_?" 

"He says you're fully...qualified?" 

"Rated? He _did_?" 

"Yes," Sarah said quietly, resigned. "He did." 

  
She had thought that she would not even be able to sit still while they were gone. Instead, she lay on the couch, covered with her shawl, and fell almost instantly into a restless sleep that went on all afternoon, rolling and pitching like a sailboat. Fragmentary dreams pursued her to the accompaniment of Rachmaninoff's _Isle of the Dead_. Then, at sunset, one dream that was not fragmentary. 

_She stood looking down into a neonate isolette which was, for some obscure reason, lined in red satin and barely large enough to hold its contents. The baby she had delivered the day Spock returned lay there. Curled up. Naked. Dying._

 _"Is he in trouble yet?" Zoe's voice asked, disembodied._

 _And she answered, "I can save him. It's only a week more." And looked up into Zoe's sad, mocking eyes._

 _"Surely you jest...."_

She woke, sat up slowly, and pulled the shawl around her shoulders, glad that it was as big as it was. Two meters each way, and yet when you crushed the filmy thing into a ball, you could almost hold it in your hand.... 

The baby was still all right. She knew it without question. But _she_ was not. And without her, he too would be lost. 

For the first time in weeks, she took her scanner and performed the examination that should have been a weekly ritual. When she had finished, she sat in the dark without moving until her daughters returned. 

"Mother?" Jill stood in the living room doorway. T'Ara continued on to her bedroom. "Why don't you have any lights on?" 

"What happened? What's the matter with T'Ara?" 

"She's all right now. I think. Can I turn on a light?" 

Sarah waved on a table lamp. "What happened to her, Jill?" 

Jill crossed the room and sat down next to her, subdued and frowning. "She's okay. It's my fault. I should have known, but I didn't think--" 

"Will you please--" 

"I forgot about the fish ladders." 

"Fish...what?" 

"Ladders. On the Bonneville Dam. The salmon have to get upstream to spawn, and the dam blocks them. The fish ladders give them a fighting chance, but--a lot of them don't make it." 

"You let her _watch_ that?" 

"I didn't think! I'm not a Vulcan! She even--she was fascinated until--until she figured out what was happening to them. Why, I mean." Jill bowed her head, and Sarah began to stroke her hair gently, automatically. "I made her get back in the boat and we took off and started back. Then I looked at her and she was crying. Just tears. She didn't make a sound." 

She cried? She never cries. "She didn't say anything?" 

"After a while she said, 'They are suffering so. They cannot reach the appointed place. Why do men do this?'" 

"Stay here. No--Jill, stay here. I'll be right back." 

T'Ara was in bed, the covers up to her chin, her eyes wide open. The fog had come in with the night, and the windows were black. Blank. A small light shone near the head of the bed. Sarah sat down and laid her hand against the child's cheek. It felt like iced silk. 

"We're going home, little one." She had no idea how she would do what she was promising to do. At the moment, she doubted that she could make it down to the lobby. But she would get her child off this planet or die trying. "We can be on a space liner by the middle of next week." _And I won't be here when...._ But even that seemed unimportant now. At the very least, T'Ara's emotional balance was at stake. At the most, perhaps her sanity. 

The child turned on her stomach and wordlessly laid her head in her mother's lap. They sat in silence for some time, Sarah's hand still against T'Ara's cheek. It felt warmer now. It was Sarah who was shivering. 

"You must get warm," T'Ara said finally. She sat up, her face drained, pale, relaxed, free of strain. "Jill and I will tuck you in." Taking her mother's hand, she got out of bed and padded the toward the door. 

It did not occur to Sarah to argue with her. 

  
Chris Jones was thinking about jelly beans. 

When he and Sarah were children, they had often played doctor, although not in the legendary sense. His mother had six children and, unlike most of her peers, was not employed outside her home. She knew a great deal about small children, had wonderful eyesight, and was even more wonderful at doing what she called protecting her kids from their own innocence. When Chris and Sarah played doctor, it was the real thing. 

"You're really sick," Sarah would say. "You have tubbercolossus." 

"What's that?" 

"It's a dread disease. It says so on the tapes." And then she would explain, at length, how the dread disease under discussion would be treated, and proceed to treat it. 

His turn to show his knowledge of the obsolete: "You have cancer of the pan...pan...." 

"Pancreas." 

"Yeah, that," he agreed. "That means you're gonna die." 

"No," she had insisted firmly. "I'm not." 

"Sure you are. It was almost always fatal." 

"You're just saying that because Sunday is Easter." 

"Huh?" 

"You just want to get all the jelly beans," Sarah had said smugly. "You can con Alex and Patty out of theirs, but you can't con me." 

All true. 

Now, on this November Monday morning, he thought about jelly beans and sat down slowly opposite Sarah in the lounge area of his office. The results of her tests were still on the screen behind his desk. They had both looked at them in silence before Sarah had turned and walked to the chair nearest the window, sat down there with her feet tucked under her, and turned to look out at the Bay. It was another lovely day, like Saturday. He knew that the Bay was sparkling in the sunlight. But he did not look out at it. The brightness would hurt his eyes, and they were already smarting with unshed tears. 

"How long has it been since you did a self-scan?" he asked. 

"Before Saturday? I don't remember." 

"Why have you done this to yourself?" He realized that he was whispering, and cleared his throat. 

"I don't think I want to tell you." 

"Tell me anyway." 

Silence. Then: "I was afraid to find out what's wrong with me." 

"My God, Sarah!" 

"I know. I never understood it either. Until now." Softly: "I don't know how to do this." 

"How to do what?" 

"Be sick. I never had the easy stuff to practice on." After a moment: "It would be nice if I had cancer of the pancreas." 

Chris pressed his fingers briefly against his closed eyes. "Would that you did." 

"Yes." 

"Were you and T'Loreth aware of the leakage of antigens during your second pregnancy?" 

"That's really reaching, Doctor." 

"Do you have a better hypothesis, Doctor?" Silence. "You weren't aware of it, then." 

"No. If I were all human...." Her voice drifted off and then came back strong. "We did the best we could to monitor everything. But even Vulcans have limits. I seem to be...unique in the universe since my grandmother's planet was destroyed. But we don't know that my second pregnancy caused the formation of this antibody. We don't know if it _is_ an antibody." 

"The fetus is defending itself against something. Something we can't see, much less identify. The phenomenon is not human. It's not Vulcan. It's not caused by male fetal hormones, but nothing like this happened when you carried Jill or T'Ara. I think we have to start with the assumption that the situation is analogous to the old Rh-negative problem taken one step further. You're producing antibodies, but the fetus is defending and you're the one that's at risk. Jill's father's race isn't different enough from your grandmother's for you to have been exposed to enough alien antigens to trigger antibody formation during your first pregnancy. But T'Ara's father is half Vulcan. And this is the second time around for the two of you." 

"I could have a virus." 

"You said yourself that you've never been sick. Your father was never sick either, was he? Your grandmother?" She shook her head to both. "He died in an aircar accident. She died from a fall off a thoroughbred jumper. At age 82. Hardy stock, from all indications. Survivors. And now a highly efficient alien fetal defense system has been activated by something, and you're being poisoned as we sit here talking about it. If you want another analogy, try HCL." 

"I'm not in pain," she said firmly. Chris simply looked at her. "Yet," she said finally. 

"You saw the organ damage with your own scan. And you saw the source of it here." Chris gestured toward the screen behind his desk. 

"At least he's not affected." 

"Not yet. But he can't survive without you. Not at twelve and a half weeks. There are too many unknowns." 

"In another month, he might." 

"You don't have another month. We can't transfuse you. We can't give you an artificial liver or an artificial kidney designed for a human because you'd reject it in hours. The only possible kidney donor is Jill--" 

_"No!"_

"I agree. I agree. If it would solve the problem permanently, I might argue with you. But in another month or two, you'd be right back where you are now. The only solution is to repair the damage as soon as possible with regeneration therapy." Chris stopped, silently drew in his breath, silently held it. 

"That would kill him. Or...worse. Even if we used a Vulcan drug. He's not all anything. Or even half anything." 

"That's true, of course. But that's not the usual protocol in these cases." And he held his breath again. 

"Vulcans do not terminate pregnancies, Doctor." 

In despair, he exhaled. "Sarah, you'll be dead in less than a month. As long as you carry the fetus--" 

She turned in her chair, eyes blazing. "Stop calling him that!" 

"For God's sake, you're a physician!" 

"Thank you for reminding me," she said with exaggerated politeness. "I'll try to remember." 

"Look, you're carrying this Vulcan wife thing beyond--beyond logic." He smiled hopefully, but she did not. "That stuff went out here on Earth a couple centuries ago. Women wouldn't put up with it. You have to make him understand that you don't need his permission to make decisions, just like you did when you brought T'Ara here. You won that one, didn't you?" 

"Yes," she said softly, bitterly. "Indeed I did." 

"Well," he said lightly, "as long as he doesn't know that was what it was about, you've made a good first step. Now--" 

"Oh...." She sighed, and for the first time he saw the ghost of a smile. "I'm sure he knows. I calculate the probabilities at 99.99 percent that that's why he didn't try to stop me." 

"What?" 

"I can't explain it, Chris. If I tried, you wouldn't believe me." 

"Know what? I think you're right." This time he almost got a real smile in answer to his. "So he let you get away with it that time, for whatever reason. But that doesn't change the fact that you have a lot of catching up to do. If you'd stood up to him before, in little ways, something like this wouldn't be so catastrophic. You just have to show him little by little that things like your leaving Vulcan for a while aren't a matter of life and death." Her eyes narrowed slightly, and he went on quickly before she could interrupt him. "Your coming here yourself was a step in the right direction." Teasingly: "After all, he knows how to find Earth if he really needs to see you." 

She simply stared at him. Then, finally, almost in a whisper: "His ancestors didn't." 

"Didn't what?" 

"Know how to find _Earth_ ," she said softly. "Where I'd just told him I was going." Her gaze drifted from his, as though she were looking at some internal image. For the first time, he wondered if she could be more ill than either of them realized, possibly even delirious. "But I showed him where I was right then. And he found me." Again almost whispering: "That's what he was trying to prove. It was the dam scene one-on-one." 

"You're talking in riddles," Chris said uneasily. Then, when she looked directly at him and he realized that she was indeed rational, he tried to hold back the anger that flooded him. "And I think you're doing it deliberately. What the hell does your coming here have to do with his ancestors? Correct me if I'm wrong, but your husband is a command-line officer on one of the most sophisticated spaceships ever built. You've given me the impression that the man is extremely well educated and highly intelligent--." 

"He's not a 'man'! He's only half human!" 

All that she had said in the last minute or so seemed to come together in one sickening thud. "Did he abuse you in some way?" 

"Oh, Chris! Talk about human linear thinking. No. I abused him. Six years ago. With one"--she made a swift upward slicing motion with her hand--"brilliant masterstroke, I betrayed his trust, annihilated his control, and made him despise his humanity when that was only the means. And not five minutes before that, I convinced every Vulcan instinct in him that I'd let him die alone." 

"All right. Fine. Whatever it was, it was all your fault. Same old Sarah. If I accept that, can we talk about now instead of then? This--problem that you had with him has nothing whatever to do with the fact that you need an abortion now. Today." 

"It has everything to do with it. If I end his son's life before it begins, he'll know he can never trust me again." 

"But you'd be alive!" 

"And what's your definition of alive?" 

"For God's sake--" 

"This has nothing to do with God and you know it." 

As the conversation became more intense, they had both leaned forward in their chairs. Now their gaze held for a moment in silence, and then Chris said quietly, "It doesn't have much to do with Vulcan ethics either." 

"Not much." 

Chris stared, at once fascinated and horrified. "What has this man ever done to be loved like that? All _right_!" He put up his hand as she began to speak, and she fell silent. He lowered his hand slowly. "All right. So he's not a 'man.' But if he really is half human, maybe this is the time for him to remember it." 

After a moment, Sarah lowered her eyes and looked away. 

And Chris thought, _She's going to die. And I can't stop her._ The tears came to his eyes once more, and he went down on one knee beside her and put both arms around her. "I'm going to have to find you another physician." 

She held him gently, just as she always had. "Chris, you're not in love with me." 

"I know. But--I can remember a time before Chris-and-Mary, but I can't remember much before Chris-and-Sarah. Can you?" 

  
"I can't go home until the baby is born. But you can." Watching T'Ara's eyes, Sarah dreaded the fear and disappointment she was sure she would see there. She saw nothing. Controlling. "There are complications. That's why I've been so tired lately. So I can't travel. But I promised you that I'd see that you got home. Back to your grandfather. And I will." 

"Do you want me to go without you?" 

"No," Sarah said carefully. "I don't. But it won't be that long, little one." 

"Will you have to go to the hospital soon?" 

"I hope not. Chris--well, he seems to think that it would be a good idea, just to be on the safe side. But I'd rather stay here and hire a nurse. Jill will be with me on weekends." 

Now, for the first time, an emotion. Excitement. Intense excitement. Almost joy. 

"I can take care of you," T'Ara whispered. 

"T'Ara, don't you want to go home?" 

"Yes. But it won't be that long. You just said that." Always something going on behind those eyes. Was it Zoe...? "You could be my teacher, and--and--" Utter joy. "I could make you tea and tell you stories. It is logical, Mother. We could play hooky together until it is time to go home." 

And it came to Sarah in a rush that until this moment, there had been nothing for this frightened child to do on this world but be a frightened child, light-years lost. Protected. Cherished. Loved. Useless. Even to herself. 

"Yes," her mother said softly. "That would be the logical thing to do." 

  


"Go see her," Chris had said. "Talk some sense into her. She always did listen to you more than she did to me. Please, honey. She won't last a month if somebody doesn't get through to her." 

And so Mary had gone, reluctantly, not willing to tell Chris that sense was not what Sarah needed right now. How long had he said? Another five days until the _Enterprise_ came home? But Chris saw the presence of Sarah's alien husband as a threat, not a promise of hope. Maybe he was right. And maybe.... Maybe he was just jealous. 

"What I don't understand," she said when she and Sarah had talked around the problem for almost ten minutes, "is how you ever got pregnant on Tara. The GS had been programmed for Kiso and humans, right?" 

"I reprogrammed it. I spent quite a bit of time doing it, but it was a scattershot operation." Sarah smiled faintly. "Maybe it was mind over matter." 

"Fine. Except that would mean that you wanted to get pregnant with Jill." 

Still the faint smile. "That thought has occurred to me." When Mary simply stared: "Consider the case carefully, Doctor. No preconceived notions? All right. Young, healthy professional woman wants to have baby. Enter Starfleet's finest. She doesn't plan to go out with him, but she does. She doesn't plan to sleep with him, but she does. When she turns up pregnant, it takes her all of three days to make up her mind: young, healthy professional woman wants to have baby. Do you detect a certain...circularity to that scenario?" 

Blushing, Mary giggled nervously. "Sarah, that's obscene." 

"Agreed. But when the CMO on the _Enterprise_ asked me why I didn't use anything--" 

"He _asked_ you?" 

"No, no. But he was concerned. Country doctor type. You'd like him. When the subject came up, I told him I never even thought about it, and I almost added, 'At least not consciously.' Stopped myself just in time. He would have had a field day with that one." 

After a moment, Mary said softly, wryly, "Anatomy is destiny?" 

Grinning, Sarah stuck her feet out from under her shawl. They were bare. 

_How can we be laughing?_ Mary thought, wiping tears away. _This woman is dying, and here we are...._

When they were calm again, she asked, "Are you sure T'Ara can handle this--this playing nurse routine? A month ago you were treating her as though she were Robbie's age." 

"Yes. I'm sure." Again, Sarah smiled a little. Every time she had mentioned T'Ara this evening, she had smiled. "What she has in mind--it's just what the doctor ordered." 

"What doctor?" 

"This doctor." 

"What about Chris?" 

"I thought we were finished with Chris's prescription for the time being." 

Mary gazed at her in silence for a moment. Then: "You've made up your mind." 

"Yes." 

"I can't talk you out of it." 

"No." 

"And what am I supposed to tell Chris?" 

"What he already knows." 

"Sarah--you don't know what this is doing to him. No, you don't." She looked down for a moment. They were sitting on the couch in Sarah's apartment, hand in hand. _Best friends_ , she thought. _Tell each other everything._ Everything but the one thing that made all the difference. "He always did love you best." Funny. It didn't hurt as much to say it out loud as it had to think it alone all these years. 

"Oh, Mary." But Sarah didn't argue. 

"I know he's as much in love with me as I am with him. But...sometimes I wonder why I never wanted to fight how he feels about you." 

"Don't ever want to do that." 

Startled, Mary looked up. Sarah was looking at her with an almost feverish intensity. But she needn't worry. That lesson had been learned a long time ago. "Because I'd lose." 

"No. Because you'd win." 

Their gaze held, and then Mary shook her head slowly. What in the universe was the matter with her? 

"Yes," Sarah said quietly, intently. "He's totally committed, so you'd win. But these bonds don't break clean. We have to twist and twist until they come out by the roots. What you'd 'win' wouldn't be Chris anymore." 

"I guess I knew that. But--I can't help it. I want him to love me best." 

After a moment, Sarah said softly, "I know." 

"How can you possibly know?" In spite of her best intentions, Mary heard a hint of impatience in her own voice. Damn research. Lose your bedside manner before you knew it. 

But Sarah didn't seem to notice. "I'm going to tell you something that you aren't going to believe at first. Will you try to take it on faith and think about it later?" Mary nodded. "The way Chris feels about me is part of the reason you love him. If he couldn't care that much about someone, you might not love him as much." 

"I don't have to think about that, luv," Mary answered gently. "I've known that for years. But how do _you_ know?" 

"Let's just say I've given the subject some thought. From time to time." Suddenly spent, Sarah lay back against the cushions, what little color there had been in her face draining away. "Oh, Mary, I'm so tired." 

Mary silently took her pulse. "You need to have somebody with you who knows the whole story. Are you going to tell your kids how serious this is?" 

"Jill, maybe." 

"Not T'Ara?" 

Sarah shook her head. "Jill can cry." 

"What about your husband? Aren't you going to try to reach him?" Sarah opened her eyes and stared, almost uncomprehendingly. "Is the _Enterprise_ the fastest way in?" 

"No. They have long-range shuttles that are much smaller and faster. Jim--Jill's father took one back...yesterday morning. Was yesterday Sunday?" 

"Couldn't Spock catch it on the way back?" Again Sarah simply stared. Not quite tracking. Better get home and tell Chris. "Sarah, don't you want him with you?" 

"Yes." Sarah covered her face with her hands. "Yes, yes, _yes_." 

"Don't cry. Chris--somebody can help you get in touch with Starfleet." 

"I don't have to get in touch with Starfleet." 

Not quite tracking. Get her to bed, and then get home and tell Chris. 

  


T'Ara had awakened to find someone at the door of her bedroom, looking in. It was Mary. She could tell without opening her eyes. Then Mary went away again, and T'Ara heard her leave the apartment. 

She controlled her resentment at having been awakened by the presence of someone unfamiliar. It was difficult to get to sleep when the fog was all around the building, obscuring the windows. She had finally accomplished it, and then Mary had awakened her by attempting to discover if she was asleep. Totally illogical, and precisely what she would have expected of Mary. 

She got up and moved silently to the door of her mother's bedroom. Mother was asleep, and yet not asleep. 

Mother was in a trance. Fascinating. 

Mindful of her mother's privacy, T'Ara returned to her own bedroom and lay down. But she could not fall asleep again. Controlling her shivering, she went across the unsteady, tipping floor and retrieved the Hollowbox that Jill's father had sent her soon after they reached Earth. She would not release the holo tonight. But the note was in the box, and it would be interesting to read it again. 

"When do you think Pinocchio became a real boy?" the writing asked her. "This isn't a trick question, T'Ara. I don't really know the answer myself, but I'm sure he was a real boy long before he thought he was. What do you think?" 

She had intended to answer the note, but since she did not know the answer to the question, it did not seem logical to answer the note. But _What do you think?_ was an interesting question. No one had ever asked her that question before. 

Her time sense told her that it was after midnight when she again went to her mother's bedroom. Mother was asleep now. Reassured, thinking about making tea and telling stories, she was beginning to turn away when it came to her that Mother was dying inside, and that it would be precisely eighteen point five six Standard days until the process was complete. 

Not even a healer could help her. If she were Vulcan.... But she was not Vulcan. And the small one fought most effectively to save himself. 

Fighting death--to the death. Most illogical. 

She returned to her room and crawled under the covers, trying to control. It was like clawing her way up stone. She thought about the red stone of home, and of Grandfather on the steps in the garden, proud that she had learned to control so well. She could remember that quite clearly. But she could not remember the Image. 

She looked at the window. Black window. Blank window. She looked away. 

There was no whale outside. The whale was in the Hollowbox. 

Not logical. The Hollowbox was not large enough to hold that whale. Was it outside the box, then? Outside the building? If Pinocchio was not a real boy, what was he? If she forgot the Image, would she be a real anything? Would she disappear like the holo going back into the box? If she lay very still, perhaps she would not disappear inside the whale. 

She lay very still for a long time, trying not to disappear. The wind rose, and the building tipped on the cushion. She thought about calling for Mother. But she had never done that, and Mother was asleep. 

"Mother?" she said very softly. 

Mother was the one who was going to disappear. In precisely eighteen point five six days, Standard. 

She could not control the hurting. It was beyond control. But she could hold it down, she discovered. The method involved not thinking about it. But there were too many things she dared not think about. The whale, and the building tipping over, and Caliban being hunted in San Francisco, and the fish ladders, and the hurting inside because Mother was going to die. She could have managed all the others, but not this. If she were not very careful, the hurting would become the whale and eat her up. 

She too would disappear unless she could remember the Image. 

  
The admiral had barely had time to change into his old uniform when Spock came to his quarters to tell him what he knew and to make a request. What Spock knew was that his wife was dying. His request was for compassionate leave and a long shuttle ride. 

What the admiral knew was that he had made a bad mistake. 

"The shuttle's gone," he said, noting distractedly that he sounded curt rather than sympathetic. What's inside usually manages to show outside. Inside, he was shouting at himself. _Why did I make a deal with her? If I hadn't been so busy hating my assignment, I'd have skipped the deal and kept the shuttle._ "As soon as we signaled free, the _Hood_ requested it. Starfleet business." Spock just looked at him. Three more days if they gave it all they had. Even with the shuttle, it would have taken almost two. "What's wrong with her?" 

"I do not know." Controlling. Expressionless. Eyes opaque. "It was not a verbal communication. She tried to tell me, but I could not understand." A faint suggestion of utter hopelessness, quickly controlled. 

"I see." _Dear God, if he were human, I might be able to help him somehow._ But no human could shut down all systems like this. Human. Kirk drew in his breath sharply. "Does Jill know?" 

"I do not know," Spock repeated. "The communication was not verbal." 

"She might sense it without being told." Kirk turned away and began to pace. Spock stood with his hands behind his back, immobile. 

"Possibly. But she is human. A Vulcan would--" Spock ceased speaking abruptly, and Kirk turned on his heel to look at him. Spock stared back at him, his eyes no longer opaque. But not grieving. There was no pain there. Only fear, as he whispered his daughter's name. Not fear. Horror. 

No wonder. Kirk thought of the green eyes searching his when he asked her if she feared Jill's humanity. Not Jill's. Hers. "Poor little kid," he said aloud. "She needs somebody to help her deal with this." 

"She requires the Image," Spock said, barely above a whisper. 

"What image?" Kirk moved slowly toward him. Spock did not answer. "This is a human child we're talking about. She needs support, comfort. If she could let go and cry it out--" 

"That would destroy her now," Spock said softly. "She is a child in great pain. If she loses the Image, she loses her self." 

Kirk felt helpless anger rising in him. "What would you do if you were there right now? Tell her to keep a stiff upper lip? I cannot _believe_ \--" 

"What you believe is not relevant here, Jim." Still no discernible emotion, but urgent and intent. "Virtually every decision I have made since Tara has been based on human values. I will not--I cannot permit _that_ to happen now." 

"Including your decision to come back to the _Enterprise_ ," Kirk said tightly, and Spock nodded. "Twice." Another nod. "Why the hell did you permit that to happen if being human is such an unforgivable sin?" 

No answer. 

"When we were bound for Altair, mister, it was human values that kept you alive." 

Hurt now. Even anger. "That too is irrelevant." 

_Nice going, Jim. You're outdoing yourself._ "Of course it is. I'm sorry, Spock. But she doesn't need a father image now. She needs a father." 

"I might have said the same to you six or seven years ago." 

_Then why the hell didn't you?_ But Kirk bit the words back. Not a cafeteria, Bones had said. Can't pick and choose. Especially not now. "Touche," he said quietly, and Spock looked away. 

"Request permission to return to quarters, sir. I should like to initiate subspace communication with Earth." 

"You could do that from here, my friend." 

Spock looked directly at him for a moment, and now Kirk saw fear--the same fear that he had seen when Spock, empty and searching, had returned to the _Enterprise_ and Jim Kirk had made the grave mistake of telling him that he needed him. _And if I keep hacking away and finally break through his control, what do I have to give him instead?_ he thought. Unwanted advice about human values? Not much of a gift of self, that. "Granted," he said with a small sigh, and Spock turned away. 

But as he neared the door, his steps slowed. Watching, Kirk saw him put both hands on the wall and simply sag, head hanging between his arms. As often as he had heard it said that we all reach our limits eventually, he had never seen those words so graphically illustrated. Without thinking, he moved quickly to lay his hand on Spock's shoulder from behind. 

Spock turned his lowered head violently away from the comforting hand, and Kirk almost withdrew it. But he hesitated, obscurely convinced that what Spock seemed to want was not what he wanted at all. In the absence of speech, he knew, body language becomes even more significant. Spock had turned his face away from comfort, but he had not moved otherwise. The almost instinctive withdrawal from human contact that Kirk had seen a hundred times was simply not there this time. 

An instant later, he knew that had he withdrawn his hand, he would have made one the worst mistakes of his life. 

With his bent head still turned away, Spock reached across and grasped the hand on his shoulder so tightly that it hurt. Suppressing the need to wince, Kirk slowly released Spock's shoulder and turned his hand to grasp Spock's. 

"Hang on." Laying his free hand on the other shoulder, he began to knead it gently. "I'm here, Spock. I'm here." The hand on his tightened, but somehow the pain that caused seemed very far away. 

Eventually, Spock slowly loosened his fingers, gently brushing them across Kirk's before he dropped his hand to his side. He raised his head and straightened his shoulders, and Kirk said quietly, "Offer still open. Do you want to send that message from here?" Still mute, Spock nodded, and they moved together toward the admiral's private communications console. 

  
Sarah opened her eyes, feeling that she had closed them only moments before. Yet the place where she lay was a place that she did not recognize. 

Then, slowly, fighting panic, she began to recognize it. She was in a room in the H.O. unit at All Worlds. A monitor screen watched her; an autoscanner scanned her continuously. There was a vidphone on the table next to her bed, and a low light in the ceiling above her. It was too hot in the room, and the low light was too bright. How in the universe did they expect patients to sleep with lights shining in their faces? 

The window showed her that it was night outside. A foggy night. The window was blank and black. 

"Where is T'Ara?" she asked aloud. 

There was no answer, but a small light at the bottom of the autoscanner went on. She waited. And while she waited, it came to her that she had been here much longer than she had at first thought. 

The nurse came in quickly, airhypo in hand. "How are you feeling, dear?" she asked brightly. 

"I don't think I've had the pleasure." 

"Probably not. I work evenings." She took Sarah's pulse, and then prepared to administer the shot. Sarah sat up, the room revolving slowly, dizzily around her, and drew herself as far away from the airhypo as she could. 

"What's that?" 

"Now don't worry about it, dear. Doctor Noble--" 

"Who the _hell_ is Doctor Noble?" The nurse reached for her arm. "Get that thing away from me, _dear_. I mean it. I want to see Doctor Jones." 

For the first time, the nurse looked her in the eye. "Doctor Jones is only a consultant on the case. Doctor Noble is the attending physician." 

"There is no Doctor Noble on staff here. Is there Hot Milk in that?" 

The nurse set her mouth. Hot Milk was a universal trade name for a mild tranquilizer that was safe for all known races. It was the only tranquilizer approved for trans-racially pregnant females. "I can't tell you that." 

"Then maybe you better find somebody who can, _dear_. This case wants to know what's in her medication. Or is that too much to ask?" 

"Sarah--" 

Chris came toward her from the doorway with a man she had never seen before. He looked to be in his early sixties, with pale, thinning hair and pale, alert eyes. Friendly eyes.  


"Give me the hypo, nurse," he said. Nurse complied with alacrity and disappeared out the door. The man with the thin sandy hair laid it on the bedside table and extended his hand. "Doctor Halsted, my name is Felix Noble. I'm a physician. Starfleet retired. My specialty was xenobiology." 

Sarah took his hand, meeting his gaze intently. "I don't believe you." 

Disconcerted, he glanced at Chris. She was making no attempt to read his thoughts, but the content was almost audible: _I thought you said she was rational._

"I think," she went on, "that what you really said was, 'Sarah, I'm Doctor Noble.'" 

Their gaze held for a moment longer, and then he grinned. It was a nice grin--fully as nice as she had expected it to be. 

Chris, however, was not smiling. He looked ghastly. 

"How long have I been here, Chris?" 

There was a moment's hesitation. Then: "Do you remember anything about what happened?" 

She remembered. Tuesday morning. Getting out of bed. The floor coming up toward her as it had that day with Zoe. Reaching for the bed to break her fall. Succeeding. That was all she remembered clearly. But there were fragments. T'Ara's face, dead white. An ambulance carrying her through the air to All Worlds. The E.R. And then, nothing. 

"How long have I been here? Why have I been sedated? Where is T'Ara?" 

"You haven't been sedated," Felix Noble said quietly. "Your medication is predominantly chemical nutrients. You've been asleep--normal sleep--for almost sixty hours on half a milligram of Hot Milk t.i.d." Gently: "I'd say the patient needed a nap, wouldn't you, Doctor?" 

"Half a--?" Faint childhood memory: her father occasionally sleeping deeply all weekend. Normal sleep. As a human might occasionally sleep the clock around. "You mean it's Thursday night? _Where is T'Ara_? 

"She's with the Altons," Chris sat on the bed and took her hand. "She wanted to stay with them. She didn't want to come home with us." Hurting. 

"It's the opera," Sarah said faintly, and patted his hand. Chris and Mary were opera fanatics, and T'Ara, like most Vulcans, was almost unable to tolerate the sound of human operatic voices. The Altons were an elderly couple who lived in the apartment next to Sarah's. She and T'Ara had shared several pleasant suppers with them. The child's solemn sweetness and impeccable manners enchanted them, and their quiet, steady affection seemed more soothing to her troubled, alienated spirit than Mary's demonstrativness and the noisy horseplay of the boys. "How did she--was she frightened?" 

"She was wonderful, Sarah. Calm as could be. You would have been proud of her." 

Sarah swallowed. No reason to panic. "She was controlling." The other two looked back at her, believing they understood. "Have you talked to Jill?" 

"Her whole class went to Lunaport on Monday morning. Some kind of survival training. We--Mary and I decided not to try to get in touch with her. They said it was only a three-day trip." 

"Yes. I remember. They get back Thurs-- today." This was _Thursday_? "I have to see T'Ara, Chris. Please." 

"She's probably in bed by now. It's almost ten." 

"Are you making rounds now?" 

"Felix is a night person." For the first time, Chris smiled a little. "Now that he's retired, he doesn't even wake up until afternoon." Felix shrugged. "I had a delivery, and I asked him to meet me here afterwards. God, I'm glad you're awake." He hugged her tight for a moment, and then they got down to business, Sarah trying to keep her mind off T'Ara until she was again alone. 

Felix had been in touch with T'Loreth while Sarah slept. They had discussed an organ-regenerating medication that had been successfully tested on both Vulcans and humans, but was not yet in general use. 

"No," Sarah said firmly. Her child was a physiological anomaly. As long as he lived, no drugs would be tested on him if she was aware of it. She had seen tapes on the results in utero of tissue-regenerating medications administered to transracially pregnant mothers. Those results were not pleasant to look at. 

"That has to be your decision, of course," Felix said firmly, before Chris could argue with her. Felix was obviously not pleased with her, but seemed willing to bide his time. "What about the artificial gestation unit?" 

"Did T'Loreth suggest that?" 

Felix hesitated, glancing briefly at Chris once more. "Every possible solution has to be explored, Doctor." 

"What did T'Loreth say about the AGU's?" Sarah persisted quietly, knowing the answer. 

"She indicated that early transfer presents serious problems unless the fetus is the offspring of a full Vulcan and a full human." 

"They haven't been modified for anomalous cases. There's an R & D team working on it, but it'll be another year before the project is ready for actual testing." Sarah closed her eyes. The room was swimming again. 

"Are you in pain?" Chris asked her. 

"Some. But it's not severe. I'm a little tired, though." _Out_ , she thought. _Get them out. I'll have to wake the Altons up if I don't call soon._

  
After they had left Sarah's room, Chris and Felix walked slowly toward the lift. Finally, Felix asked quietly, "How soon does the husband get here?" 

"Any time now." 

"Maybe he can make her see reality." 

Standing before the lift doors, Chris thrust his hands into his pockets and rotated his aching shoulders, then his neck. "Don't hold your breath," he said. 

  
The instant Sarah saw Eileen Alton's face on the screen, she panicked again. 

"Sarah? Oh, dear. I'm so sorry you called just now. We have a little problem--" 

"What's happened to T'Ara?" It was like a nightmare. Going from one faceless person to another, asking over and over, _Where is my child? What's happened to my child?_

"She went over to your apartment about an hour ago to get a holo that she wanted to look at. I suppose one of us should have gone with her, but it was right next door--" 

"Where is she?" 

"She's still in there," Eileen said helplessly. "But she won't answer the door. We've been trying to get her to answer for half an hour. We can't palm the lock, of course. Do you think we ought to try to get in touch with the Homes management?" 

"No," Sarah said carefully. "Under no circumstances are you to force that lock. Eileen, I'm going to have to blank you now. I'm sorry. None of this is your fault. Please don't blame yourself. Goodnight." She blanked Eileen and punched in another number, wondering why her hands were not shaking even though the buzzing in her head was beginning again. 

The Starfleet seal appeared on the screen, and the computer's voice said politely, "Starfleet Academy, Preparatory Division. Please state--" 

"Halsted. Jill. This is an emergency." 

  
"Are you sure you don't want to beam down right to the hospital?" 

Spock went on programming the coordinates of the building in which Sarah and T'Ara were living. He seemed calm now, Kirk thought. No doubt controlling, but not impassive. Single-minded and intense. 

"I cannot." 

He finished the setting and turned to Kirk, who nodded, wondering how much more he ought to say. Sarah had been in the hospital for almost three days. She must be worse. Yet Spock insisted on going to T'Ara first. Must be something he thought he could do for her. Best leave well enough alone. And yet-- 

"You have to do what you have to do," he said quietly. "I understand that, even though I seem pretty dense sometimes." Oddly enough, he thought he saw a hint of a smile deep in Spock's eyes. "But...give her something to hang onto. For the human part of her to hang on to." 

For a moment, Spock's hand was on his arm, fingers tightening and then releasing. Then he turned away and mounted the transporter pad. 

He materialized in a heavy fog, directly outside the lobby doors. It was night, and it was almost impossible to see more than a few meters ahead. Even the other side of the street was obscured. 

He stood for a moment, remembering. When he had first come to the Academy, he had found the Bay Area fog more than a little disturbing. On Vulcan, there might be a fine mist on winter mornings in low-lying areas. But this visually impenetrable soup, in which even one's Vulcan hearing was dampened, was intensely disorienting to the uninitiated. He had overcome his distaste.... Distaste? Fear was the word, although even at a distance of so many years, he could not explain logically to himself why he had been afraid. But he had overcome his fear by walking alone in the fog for hours. A female of nine point six eight Standard years would have no such opportunity. 

Frowning a little, he entered the lobby and stopped dead just inside the doors, positioning his feet carefully to retain equilibrium. Fascinating. The quake cushion was slightly out of alignment. There was no danger to the building, but the sensation that the entire structure was tipped at an angle of eighty-eight point four three degrees was profoundly demoralizing.... 

T'Ara had been living in this building for nearly three months. 

He controlled, re-envisioned the building, and proceeded across the lobby to the lift. 

No one answered his ring at the apartment. And of course the lock would not release to his palm. He stood in the hallway, controlling something disturbingly close to panic. There was no logical reason to believe that T'Ara was within, and many logical reasons to believe that she was elsewhere. With the Joneses, perhaps. And yet he stood there, his mind reaching backward to another time and place. A pier at the domestic spaceport in ShiKahr--a half-finished pier with a silent, apparently deserted space yacht some distance away. In memory, he heard Jim's voice, and then Sarah's. 

_"You don't even know if she's in there."_

_"She's in there."_

She's in there. Alone. 

He laid his hand on the door, concentrating, reaching. He had expected to find what his mind now touched. But expecting it was one thing, and finding it was another. He controlled, trying to soothe her. At least she recognized him, even though she could not endure the contact and fled from it almost instantly. 

He closed his eyes, both hands on the door. _T'Ara, I can help you. Let me help you._

After what seemed like a very long time, but was in fact only one point four seven minutes, he felt a very slight vibration from the wall next to the entry. T'Ara had released the privacy lock. But the doors remained closed. He sensed her physical withdrawal--into another room. Running. She had done as much as she was able to. Releasing the lock was the extent of her ability to allow anyone into her space. 

It took him another point four seven minutes to get the doors to slide open. This process involved the insertion of fingers into the crack between the doors. It was difficult; at times he seemed to be clawing at the crack as though he were one of his own distant ancestors. But eventually, the process was complete and the doors slid back. 

Darkness. No light at all. The automatic lighting had apparently been deactivated, and the fog obscured the windows completely. If he were all human, he would not have been able to proceed. He proceeded. 

There seemed to be a great deal of furniture with no obvious purpose and of no particular ingenuity in design. Interesting. That Sarah had lived here.... He controlled. He must not think of Sarah now. 

A small bedroom with two beds, a tape container and a book lying on the foot of one of them. Not here. She had been here. But she was not here now. 

In her mother's room? 

In the other bedroom, there was something on the floor next to the bed. Crouching? No, not quite that bad. Sitting, arms hugging her knees to her chest. 

A shadow with eyes. 

Something like.... Something like.... _"Doctor McCoy says your name is Jill. Is that your name?"_ Of course. Aloud, he asked very gently, "Who was it who taught you your name?" 

He had expected another rush of incoherent terror such as she had sent when he had startled her by touching her mind through the door. Now he realized that as long as he did not attempt mental contact, he could monitor strong, surface-level mental responses over a short physical distance. It would not suffice. If he was to lead her back to the Image, as he knew he must, there must be both physical and mental contact. But the process had begun. She was terrified--of him, of everything, but primarily of the content of her own mind, which seemed to be swarming with phantasms that he could only dimly perceive and rather wished he could avoid, especially the image of Sarah as she had looked the last time T'Ara saw her Tuesday morning. But momentarily dominating them all was an intense emotion, the nature of which required him to control when he perceived it. 

She was curious. She wanted to know what was going to happen next. She wanted to understand what it was that he was attempting to accomplish by raising a vivid picture of Sarek in her mind. 

She wanted to know the end of the story. 

She was also unable to stand, let alone cross the distance between them. She perceived the building as tilted at an angle of sixty one point five nine degrees and increasing. How she had managed to free the lock he had no idea. 

Nor could she tolerate his coming any closer to her. In control of virtually nothing, she must retain the ability to continue or end her own isolation. 

First things first. He sent her the image of the building as it actually existed, and then, before she could close her mind, began to re-envision it as he had in the lobby. Knowing that humans were unable to re-envision, he anticipated difficulties that did not materialize. T'Ara had not re-envisioned the building; her instruction on Vulcan had not yet reached that level. Fascinated, her mind watched as he flattened the building until it was a quadrangle scarcely a centimeter thick with an area one point one three six kilometers square. The fear that had magnified the angle of inclination in her mind evaporated; the broad, flat quadrangle was barely affected by the misaligned quake cushion a fraction of its size. 

Silently he held out his hand, and she rose and walked to him across the flat quadrangle that tilted only slightly. She did not take his hand. It was too soon for that, he knew. But with a small shudder, she permitted him to seek the pressure points along the side of her head. He laid his other hand lightly on her shoulder, and oddly enough, that contact did not appear to disturb her at all. 

Together they reconfigured the building in her mind, he showing her the misaligned cushion and its consequences. She had understood its purpose, but like most human children, she was more than capable of imagining terrifying variations on the simplest phenomenon until that phenomenon was explained. He explained, in images and words, in silence and aloud. "Do you understand?" he asked finally, aloud. 

Yes, she answered silently. She had not yet made one audible sound. 

Now he took her back though the years, back to the time when Sarek had begun to teach him the Vulcan way. Until he and she traveled those memories together, he had only suspected how different her way had been from his. Having seen T'Ara and his father together so seldom, he now marveled at the gentleness with which Sarek made his expectations known to his granddaughter. Marveled, envied, controlled that envy; it was not logical to wish that things had been different for him so many years ago, that a much younger Sarek had been less demanding and more understanding of his only son. Wishing would change nothing. And so he controlled his envy and remained untroubled by it. 

T'Ara observed him controlling, glimpsed the Image, lost it, panicked. 

_It is here_ , he told her silently. _Watch. Listen. Be patient._ The words were Sarek's, but the mental voice was his own. 

They began again, this time with her memories of Sarah. 

He understood at once why she had been unable to control her grief. Her love was true and whole, the bond between her and her mother immeasurably strengthened by the time they had spent alone together. But even as her spirit cried out in anguish, another emotion shot through it and was instantly banished. Hidden. Buried. 

_She has brought me here to this nightmare world only to abandon me on it._

Rage. No. Outrage. His feelings of envy had troubled him; her feelings of having been betrayed and abandoned horrified her. But when she attempted to deny them and to hide them away again, he turned the eyes of her mind back to the moment when he had recognized his envy of her for what it was, determined that it was illogical and dangerous, and obliterated it with an act of will. Together they moved through that moment again, and this time she did not lose the Image of the Vulcan way. Holding it, she controlled her outrage. Rejoicing, she turned to her grief with the Image held like a torch against the night. 

_Wait_. 

She waited, trembling faintly. And he showed her what of her mother would be hers to keep if she obliterated her grief. 

Nothing. 

Without grief, love too would be gone forever. 

He showed her then what Sarek had only begun to teach her when they were separated--that the control mechanism could be used to mitigate as well as obliterate, to make the unbearable bearable without annihilating it. He had walked that road himself only recently. Now they walked it together. 

He could see her upturned face only indistinctly, but the calm intensity of her gaze told him that he had been successful even before she spoke aloud for the first time. 

"I accept your gift...." She paused, almost as though she were listening, and again, as on his last day on Vulcan, his mind played with a phrase not in his native tongue. _To a different drummer._ "Thank you, Father." 

His hand still on her head, he moved his thumb a little to push back the strand of dark hair that had strayed across her forehead. If only they could stop now. She deserved to be able to rest. But they both knew that that was impossible. 

The emotional effects of the elaborate phobic fantasy involving the fog and the whale could be controlled as long as she remained indoors. But the delusion itself was too deeply rooted to be explained away in words. Unlike the building and its quake cushion, the fog-whale existed only in her mind, and could not be re-envisioned. He realized that she had contrived never to leave the building after dark or before sunrise, and that the whale pursued her in dreams as well as awake. In other circumstances, the phenomenon would have been fascinating. He was not fascinated. Should an emergency arise that would require her to leave the building during the night, she would be unable to do so. 

"I will help you," he said quietly. "This thing must be done now, before your condition becomes untreatable." 

"Yes," she answered. But she was trembling faintly once again. 

She had deactivated all the lighting in the apartment so that there would be no shadows; her eyesight was fully Vulcan, and in her distraught state, dark rooms had seemed much less frightening than shadowed rooms. Now relatively calm, she showed him the controls, and there was light. 

The first thing he saw was Sarah's shawl, left on the couch in the living room where she and Mary had talked on her last evening at home. Controlling, he picked it up and wrapped it around T'Ara and her white, long-sleeved flannel nightgown. Then they took the lift together to the lobby. 

He had not been deceived by her apparent passivity. She was attempting to control, and in the main succeeding; he had done his work well thus far. But just inside the lobby doors, she stopped and looked up at him in despair. Too much in too short a time. 

_Give her something to hang on to._

Then, looking down at her, he was momentarily distracted. Unaccustomed as he was to fathering, much less fathering in San Franciso in November, he had not noticed until this moment that the child had nothing on her feet. Meeting her gaze, he raised both eyebrows. Meeting his, she raised her arm, curved expectantly. There was no hesitation in it; it was the logical thing to do. 

When he picked her up with one arm, it seemed that he was carrying nothing. Or a sunbeam. 

Not logical. But a valid metaphor nonetheless. 

With the shawl wrapped around her feet as well as the rest of her, they left the lobby. 

Her arm over one of his shoulders and her free hand grasping the other, she turned and twisted, controlling but still deeply agitated. He walked slowly, resisting the temptation to verbalize his abundant knowledge regarding the composition of fog. His knowledge was not relevant; her delusion was based not on knowledge, but on fear generated by the overactive imagination of an intelligent human child. 

"Why isn't it _here_?" she whispered, having already perceived the fundamental visual aspect of fog: always around one but never quite where one was. He did not answer, but simply held her steadily as he walked on. He was still resisting the temptation to lecture her; once he began, he calculated the probabilities at 98.57 percent that he would pursue the subject verbally until what a human would call the bitter end. That course of action did not seem preferable in context. 

The building they had just left was one of half a dozen that surrounded a plaza, lighted from above by arching outdoor lights. No sound penetrated the fog; even their Vulcan hearing could perceive nothing. Above them, the lights were ringed in fog. As he paused near the center of the plaza, T'Ara, no longer twisting and turning, reached out and upward toward one of the lights and closed her hand. It was clear to him what she was thinking: at their approach just a moment before, the location where they now stood had been invisible; logic indicated that the fog was here. But her hand came away empty. 

"It's water," she said softly. "There is nothing here but invisible water." Still looking up at the lights, she smiled. 

He thought of his mother saying, _Thank you for that. I don't think I'll ever forget it._ And he controlled. The time would come. But this was not the time. 

They moved on through the silent plaza, and soon the ghosts of children's playground equipment loomed all around them. He stopped, and it seemed that now there were sounds in the fog--the sounds of noisy young humans shouting, arguing, laughing. Both knew that there were no voices here. And yet both could hear them in their minds. 

T'Ara turned her head to look at him, expressionless. "It is called having fun." 

"Indeed?" He raised one eyebrow. "Interesting." 

Her mouth twitched, but she did not smile. Instead, she endeavored to raise one of her eyebrows without raising the other. It was a creditable attempt, but ultimately unsuccessful. 

  
As they entered the apartment, both of them realized that someone else was there even before they saw her. 

Jill rose slowly from the couch where she had been sitting with her hands clasped between her knees. Terrified. Expecting to find T'Ara there, no doubt. Not finding her, trying to decide what to do next. She wore her cadet uniform, blue for life sciences. It gave her eyes a touch of blue. When he looked into them, he found that it was not necessary to ask if she knew her mother's condition. 

Still carrying T'Ara, he held out his free arm at the same moment that Jill ran to them. 

At first he thought that there was no way he could help her. There was no Image he could give this human child who now clung to him and to her sister, her face buried in Sarah's shawl. But then he again remembered Jim's words: _Give her something to hang on to._ Hanging on did not seem to be a problem to Jill at the moment. But then, it never had been. And so he held her to him while T'Ara stroked her hair as their mother would have done. When Jill finally raised her head, she seemed surprisingly calm. He had often wondered at the capacity of humans to be calmed by the touch of other humans who loved them. Often, until a few days ago. 

He set T'Ara down, relieved to the depths of his being that he would not have to take her with him to the hospital. She had borne enough in the last few days. Now she must rest. Laying his hands on Jill's shoulders, he said quietly, "I must go to your mother now." She nodded. "You must not leave your sister alone. If you leave this place even for a moment, you must take her with you. Do you understand?" Another nod. 

T'Ara was folding the shawl. 

They both watched as she laid it out on the floor, and then began to fold it precisely in half, then in quarters, then in eighths, all perfectly squared off. When she had folded it so that it was ten point seven three centimeters on a side, she brought it and laid it in his outstretched hand. And when she smiled her small, grave smile this time, it was at him rather than away from him. He smiled gravely back. 

"Thank you," he said. 

"You're welcome," she said. 

Jill stared, her mouth slightly open. 

When he left them, still carrying the folded shawl, they were standing together hand in hand, the one in uniform, the other in her flannel nightgown. Incongruous sight, he thought. But a rather pleasurable one nonetheless. 

  
When Chris had returned to Sarah's room before he left the hospital for the night, he had been profoundly disturbed that she had not taken her shot as she had promised Felix she would. The thing with T'Ara could be serious, but even after he had called Mary and asked her to check it out, Sarah would not take her shot. 

"Mary can't help her," she insisted. "T'Ara won't let her in. I have to wait until Jill calls me." One spot of color in either cheek. Eyes feverishly bright. Pulse racing. Wouldn't lie down. Exhausted. 

"Can't you trust us to take care of T'Ara?" he asked hopelessly. 

"You don't understand." 

He turned away and went to stand at the window, looking out at nothing. Couldn't even see the Bay. Damn fog. There were tears in his eyes again. 

"Oh, Chris," she said softly. "I'm so sorry to keep hurting you like this. I do love you." He nodded, unable to answer. "If she's frightened and can't control it, she could become psychotic. Mary doesn't know how to help her. I'm not even sure that I would." 

He stood staring out, trying to understand what she was saying. It went against everything he had ever believed about how to deal with strong emotions. And yet _she_ believed it.... 

Hearing a sound he could not identify, he turned to see a Vulcan in a blue-shirted Starfleet uniform sitting on the edge of Sarah's bed, holding her face between his hands. Wondering why in the universe the man didn't take his wife in his arms, he saw Sarah raise her hands too. She didn't seem to be in a trance, and yet Chris was sure that something was going on that he could not perceive. Finally she whispered, "Are you sure she's all right?" 

The dark head nodded, but Sarah's expression was already changing from incredulous joy to intense, empathetic sadness. He had seen this before in her--the capacity to share another person's pain. He did not have to wonder why Sarah's husband slumped a little, now resting his forehead against hers. He had interned at Salk Memorial in ShiKahr and spent several years on staff there, and he knew that with even superficial physical contact, they all had some degree of ability to perceive the presence of severe internal trauma in a patient. He and his human colleagues had referred to the phenomenon jokingly as "X-ray vision." 

But Sarah's expression was changing again, and Spock had raised his head slowly, almost as though he were surprised. Watching, Chris tried to comprehend what was happening to the patient. At this moment, he could only think of her as a patient who had been on the verge of despair just a few moments before. And at this moment, she looked better than he had seen her look in weeks. But not quite normal. Could be in a light trance now. What in the name of heaven was he doing to her? 

"Do you think we could?" she whispered finally. "For a month?" 

"Perhaps," Spock answered quietly. "If your medication were discontinued." 

_Oh, no you don't._ Abruptly, Chris decided it was time to make his presence known. Alien husband was one thing, but this was something else altogether. 

He moved toward the bed, and when Spock rose and turned to face him, he realized with a small shock that the Vulcan had known he was there all along. That didn't make sense. In all his time at Salk, he had never seen a Vulcan family member interact emotionally with a patient in the presence of a human physician. 

Disconcerted, he hesitated momentarily. He had hoped that Sarah's husband would look human; somehow that would have made the whole bizarre situation bearable. But he had hoped in vain. Meeting Spock's gaze, he thought, _If I sell you my soul, Mephistopheles, will you free hers? I'll do it. Anything._ Forcing a smile, he held out his hand. "Chris Jones, Commander. Happy to meet you." Too late, he remembered that Vulcans never shake hands. 

Spock shook hands with him, studying him intently. Chris knew that Spock could not read his mind. As a lark, he had taken some tests at Salk, and discovered to his relief that he was what Vulcans called "inaccessible" even on physical contact. And Spock did not prolong the contact, but simply studied him. _Don't send mixed messages_ , Mary had told him on more than one occasion. _You don't fool anybody._ But Mary had been talking about humans. 

"What's this about being off medication?" he asked lightly, still smiling but now at Sarah, who was almost the last one he could ever fool. If he could wipe this stupid grin off his face...but he couldn't. And Sarah wasn't fooled either. Belatedly, he realized that he had not called Spock by name, and had probably set a tone right there. The whole thing was doomed from the start, and he wasn't helping matters any. 

As Sarah answered his question, he had no difficulty getting rid of the smile. 

Because she was a physician herself, she told him, she was able to precisely conceptualize, even visualize, the fetal defense system that was destroying her internally. Because of her deep rapport with Spock, his initial horrified resistance to the phenomenon had momentarily arrested its progress, which was accelerating with each passing day. "I can focus it," she explained with growing excitement. "I did, for just a moment, while we were en rapport." 

"Focus _what_?" Chris asked, trying to keep his voice from rising. "Are you talking about some kind of a healing trance?" She nodded, glancing as Spock, who now stood with his hands clasped behind his back. "Sarah, that's self-healing. Please--" He turned to Spock. "Please don't raise her hopes. This--this momentary reprieve could be an illusion on both your parts. Wishful thinking." Hopeless. 

"There is a probability of 65.87 percent," the Vulcan informed him expressionlessly, "that the procedure would be successful until the child can be taken alive." 

Furious, Chris demanded, "Are you a physician, Commander?" 

The eyebrows rose. _You know better than that._

"Look, I'll make a deal with you. You can come here and practice any techniques you want to. But don't try to interfere with the patient's medication. Look at her. There is no way she's going to be able to rest without medication, let alone sleep." No reaction. "I think you two had better discuss this," Chris said tightly, and moved toward the door. Better get out before he started yelling. 

To his surprise, Spock moved to intercept him. "What is the prognosis if the current treatment is continued?" 

"She's going to die," Chris said steadily, looking Spock in the eye, "unless the pregnancy is terminated. There is no alternative." 

"We have been discussing an alternative, Doctor, for the past four point four three minutes." 

"Spock--" 

They both turned to look at Sarah, who smiled sadly and shook her head. "Can I have my say now?" Spock moved to sit on the edge of the bed once more. Watching Sarah's eyes, Chris despaired even before she began to speak in Vulcan. "My husband, if it is your wish--" 

But she never finished. Two fingers against her lips silenced her, and Chris heard the words, in English, that he would have sold his soul to hear. 

"It is my wish that you choose." 

There was no question in Chris's mind that Spock was absolutely sincere, simply because there was obviously no question in Sarah's. She looked...radiant. _What has this man ever done--_ He forced his resentment down. This "man" had just accomplished what he and Felix and Mary had not been able to accomplish.... 

_No!_

He almost shouted it aloud, even before he saw her begin to raise her hand, the first two fingers extended. Later, he would try to describe it to Mary. But the only words he would find were _She didn't look human. I swear to God, Mary--for just a second, she didn't look human. And I can't even tell you what I mean by that._

He did not realize he had been holding his breath until he let it out in a sigh of sheer despair. At the sound, Spock turned slowly. 

Absolute, non-human stillness. He almost shone with stillness. 

And yet: _I can talk to him. If I can just find the right words, I can reach him. Now._ "Don't let her do this." He began to walk slowly toward them, and Spock rose to face him. "You can stop her. She'll do anything you say. Don't you understand? Even if your treatment works, the thing has gone too far. The damaged organs must be repaired _now_. We can't regenerate without killing the fetus. If there were some procedure that could be carried out selectively, it would be different. But the mixed racial heritage of both mother and...." 

They weren't listening. Either of them. 

At the word "selectively," Spock had turned his head sharply to look at Sarah, who was looking at him, her eyes slightly narrowed. Chris had seen Mary when she was onto something in her research. Nothing else existed until she had tracked the thing down. At this moment, nothing else existed for Spock and Sarah. 

"There was no trauma," Sarah said softly. "His retinas were intact, and there was _no trauma_." 

Non-telepath that he was, Chris was sure that Spock "said" something in answer that was deeply disturbing to him. Sarah nodded slowly, her gaze still locked with Spock's. 

"And what am _I_ doing right now, Spock?" 

  
"She's going to sign herself out this morning. There's nothing I can do to stop her." Looking at Felix on the screen, Chris sighed. "I had to talk to you, and it's almost seven-thirty." 

"Christ." Felix rubbed his eyes. "Give me a minute." He yawned and shook his head. "Sorry. Tell me what happened." 

Chris told him, and watched him wake up fast. 

"What the hell did she mean--retinas?" 

"She won't tell me. Whatever it is, she's excited. Up. But nervous. Afraid, I think. And whatever it is, it's offworld. He's going to take her aboard the _Enterprise_. The reason I woke you--can he do that?" 

"If she's a Starfleet dependent, she can be a passenger and receive medical treatment if all Federation regs are kept." 

"She's nobody's dependent. The way she lives, she makes enough to support herself and four or five kids." 

Felix was already working at his desk computer, apparently just beside the 'phone. "It's an archaic designation, retained for the purpose of determining benefits for family members. Ah, here we go. Well, he's thorough. I'll give him that. 'Wife, one child.' Everything in order." 

"What benefits, exactly?" There had to be some way. There had to be. 

"Interplanetary transport and medical care. Registered dependents are entitled to medical care on any Federation starbase, colony, or vessel, as long as the vessel isn't on hazardous duty. What's the _Enterprise_ up to these days?" 

"Would you believe--a training cruise." Chris put his face in his hands. "I can't believe she's rational, Felix." 

"She seemed pretty rational to me," Felix said wryly. Then, more seriously: "Could he have hypnotized her?" 

"No. It wasn't anything he did. It was almost--at one point, it was almost as though she was determined to put her life in his hands." 

"But you said he wouldn't let her. Did she believe him?" 

"Hell, _I_ believed him. But she still chose to go with him--accept this hokum about a vicarious healing trance. And then that other thing, at the end...." Chris frowned. "One child?" 

Felix consulted the com screen. "Wife, one child, nine SYO. Almost ten." 

Chris nodded slowly. "I'm not tracking this morning." He was silent, rubbing the stubble on his chin. 

"Something?" Felix asked. 

"Might be. She says he's still a friend of hers. Can you use that thing to locate a Starfleet officer whose ship is in Spacedock? I mean, tell me where he is right now, this minute?" 

"Why?" 

"I'm going to see if I can appeal to the military mind on this. It just might work." 

  
Felix's computer had informed him that Admiral Kirk was not on leave, having had leave on Vulcan three months before. His official assignment was Commandant of Starfleet Academy. But his temporary assignment for the next three weeks, on which the ink (metaphorically speaking) was barely dry, was interim commander of the U.S.S. _Enterprise_. Captain Spock, it seemed, had requested and been granted compassionate leave owing to the illness of his wife. 

At the moment, 0823, Kirk was in his office at the Academy, collecting the tapes and papers he would need for the training cruise. His visitor, who had been greeted cordially when he identified himself, said sympathetically, "This must be very frustrating for you, Admiral. Couldn't they have found someone else to command the ship so that you could assume your new position as planned?" 

The man in the gold shirt half sat on the corner of the desk near Chris's chair. "Well--" Bewildered, Chris had the distinct impression that Kirk was embarrassed. He looked almost...guilty? "I'll be supervising the entire hands-on training program, but I've never commanded a training mission myself. It...seemed the logical thing to do under the circumstances. How is Sarah?" 

Chris answered the admiral's questions, watching Kirk's expression as he did so. Affection, concern. This might be easier than he'd thought. "Are you aware that her husband plans to bring her aboard the _Enterprise_ this morning?" 

Kirk frowned slightly. "Yes, of course I am." 

"Do you know that he plans to treat her condition himself while on board the ship?" 

Kirk looked at him in silence for a moment and the shook his head slowly. "No, I didn't know that. We--I only spoke with him for a few moments last night, by 'phone. We were talking interplanetary transport for her and T'Ara. Back to Vulcan." 

"I see." _What the Old Man doesn't know won't hurt him, huh, Spock?_ "I understand that this man has been one of your subordinates for some time?" 

In the moment before Kirk answered, Chris had the impression that his expression changed, although he could not define how it changed. "He's been my first officer for some time," the admiral said quietly. "He'll be the captain of my ship when I leave it." 

"Well, I think that's commendable," Chris said firmly. 

"I don't follow you." 

"Well--" The indefinable sense that the wind was changing rapidly began to make Chris feel a little uncomfortable. "I think it's commendable, Admiral, that Starfleet makes it possible for everyone to have an equal opportunity for advancement." 

After a moment, Kirk nodded thoughtfully, rose, and went to sit behind his desk. The man must have been trained as an administrator, Chris thought uneasily. That meant he had to know that the business with the desk was intimidating behavior. What the hell--? 

"Is this about Sarah or about Spock?" Kirk asked. 

"Actually, it's both." Trying to regain the congenial atmosphere of their initial exchanges, Chris explained in as few words as possible what he knew Spock planned to do, and then told the admiral as much as he knew of Spock and Sarah's additional intentions. "I have no idea what they were talking about," he finished. "But it scares the hell out of me." 

"Whose idea was this--Sarah's or Spock's?" 

"Well, it seemed to be hers, mostly. But she'd do whatever he said. She's completely dominated by him." 

"Sarah?" Kirk asked softly, smiling a little. 

"She's critically ill. She's not herself." Chris leaned forward, letting the desperation he was feeling show in his voice. "Admiral, I worked with Vulcans at Salk Memorial in ShiKahr for several years. I have no doubt they're sincere and upright and all the rest of it. I know the Federation Council is impressed with their intellectual capabilities. So am I. But the question is whether we want their values to control the entire Federation. They just don't _think_ the way we do." 

Still smiling faintly, Kirk did not comment. 

"Will you help me stop him from taking her away with him?" 

"No." 

"Sorry?" 

"You heard me," Kirk said softly, pleasantly. 

"You won't cooperate?" 

"You got it, mister." Still smiling faintly. 

"Admiral, I can't believe that you'd take this position against one of your own." 

"Try," said the admiral, who was no longer smiling. 

"You'd trust this--this _alien_ with Sarah's _life_?" 

Kirk came to his feet so quickly that Chris, who was still leaning forward, jerked back in his chair. "I'd trust him with _mine_." He brought both hands down on the desk, hard, and leaned on them. "And with Jill's. And I have." He straighted up slowly. "Are you through, or do I call Security?" When Chris began to speak again, he pressed a button on the desk top. "Ensign, Dr. Jones is leaving. Please escort him to the lift." 

The young ensign had been on duty directly outside the office, and had shown Chris in when he arrived. He was in the room almost before Chris had finished rising slowly to his feet. "This way, sir," he said, impeccably polite. 

Still staring at Kirk, Chris said softly, "I don't understand you." 

"Try harder." Kirk made a quick gesture with his thumb to the young ensign, who escorted Dr. Jones to the lift. 

  
As soon as the door closed, Kirk activated his communicator. 

" _Enterprise_." 

"Standing by, sir." 

"Tell McCoy I want him. On the double. And beam me up." He swept up papers and tapes and stowed them in his case, closing the lid with a snap. "Now." 

  
"You look like you rattled the wrong cage." Felix's tone was sympathetic, but there was a wry smile lingering around his eyes. 

"You knew what was going to happen." Chris glared at the image on the phone screen. 

Felix shook his head. "No, I didn't. I've never met Jim Kirk. For all I knew, it could just as easily have gone the other way." He sighed and added softly, "Unfortunately." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

"Look, Chris, I'm with you, okay? She's my patient, remember?" 

"Sorry." Chris buried his face in his hands. "That seems to be the word of the day. She was gone when I got back to the hospital. Left me a note. 'I'm sorry.' Didn't even wait to say goodbye." 

"Did you leave word when you'd be back?" 

"No." 

"Where you could be reached?" 

"No." 

"The com says the _Enterprise_ was scheduled out of Spacedock at 0900." 

"I know. I know. You told me." Still with his face in his hands, Chris went on softly, "I can't believe any of this is really happening. It seems like just last year that we were all kids together. She and I--we were the mischief-makers. Had my brother and sisters going all the time. One Christmas we sneaked down early and emptied everybody's stockings behind a chair. Put cookie dough in them." Raising his head, he smiled sadly, reminiscently. "Down at the bottom. You should have seen them sticking their hands in.... Mom and Dad were ready to kill the both of us. We had to sit in the den while everybody else was opening their presents. We sat there on the couch, trying to keep a straight face, and every time one of us would remember how the other kids looked when they hit that dough, we'd start giggling again. I think we had to sit there all morning." He pressed his hand against his eyes. "Now she's just...not of this world." 

After a moment, Felix said softly, "Did you tell him any of this?" 

"Who?" 

"The military mind." 

"Hell, no. He's a tin soldier." 

"Chris, you idiot!" Felix flung himself back in his chair. "If that's true, he'd have given you the Vulcan's head on a platter. Can't you see that?" Chris simply stared at the screen. "There is one more possibility." 

"Do me a favor and don't tell me about it." 

"I'm serious. If alien medical techniques are going to be practiced on a Starfleet vessel, the CMO has to sign on as physician of record. I know McCoy slightly--" 

"Come on, Felix. It's a goddamn old-boy network." 

Felix shook his head. "This isn't a matter of personal loyalties. We're talking medical ethics here. A lot will depend on how well he and the Vulcan communicate." 

"You'll get in touch with him?" 

"I...somehow, I don't think that'll be necessary. And if McCoy doesn't cooperate, Kirk will have to put her off at the nearest starbase. It's in the Book." 

Chris gazed at the screen for a moment, and then said quietly, "I wish _you_ were the CMO on the _Enterprise_." 

Felix sighed. "I don't," he said. 

  


  



	8. Full Circle, Parts 3 and 4

   


# Full Circle, Part 3: On Tara

  
  
The chime of the 'phone had awakened Jill in the middle of the night. At first she thought it was part of a dream. But it went on and on, and finally it woke her up. She looked over at T'Ara, but T'Ara was still sound asleep. Funny. She hardly ever slept through anything. But after all the things that had been happening....

Terror gripped her. Nobody at PREPDIV would call her in the middle of the night, and no one else knew where she was except Spock.

She got to the 'phone before it had chimed twice more, activated the screen, and almost sobbed with relief when she saw that it was J.T. Grinning.

"Start packing, mister," he said. "You're on this mission, and so am I."

"Wha--" She swallowed and tried again. But nothing would come except the same sound again.

"Wake up. Wake up." He snapped his fingers a couple of times, still grinning. "Spock's going to take your mother and T'Ara home, and I'm going to take the ship until he's free, and you're going on a cruise a little sooner than you thought you would."

"But--but--Gamma Group isn't scheduled until January. We just went to Lunaport." Gamma Group consisted of one class from the Academy and one from PREPDIV. All of their field training was done together, so that the maturity of the Academy cadets would 'enrich the experience' for the PREPDIV contingent. It was called TR--theoretical ruboff. Starfleet had few illusions in spite of the rhetorical excesses of official parlance.

"You want to stay here?"

"No!" She was waking up fast now. "How did you work it?"

"Don't ask. Just accept the fact that there may be one or two advantages to having your father in charge of the Academy."

"I mean, how did you work it for you?"

"Spock's on compassionate leave," he answered quietly, no longer smiling. "I--let's just say I talked fast. Very fast." He didn't look very happy with himself now.

"Well, it's logical." When he simply nodded, she went on, "She's awful sick, J.T. But she and T'Ara really want to go home. If everybody gets what they really want, what difference does it make if one sort of rides on the other?" Before he could answer, she continued, "When does _Enterprise_ undock?"

"Oh nine hundred."

"Tomorrow?"

"Today, Jill." They smiled at each other. "Can you be ready?"

"I'm ready now." _I've been ready for this for over two years._ "Sir," she added, and wiped the smile.

"Sure that's the way you want it?" But he was still smiling a little. He'd always known she was right about this, even if he couldn't quite go along with it sometimes. Most of the time.

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Spock's coming to get T'Ara in"--he glanced at his chronometer--"three hours thirty nine minutes. Mark."

"Very good, sir."

He winked.

"Don't do that, J.T.!" But she couldn't help laughing, even though she meant it.

  
A little over four hours later, after she had stowed what little gear she had, she went to Sickbay on a double mission. The commander of Alpha Group knew that her mother was a passenger and that she was sick, and had given her an hour away from duty. She didn't like to take advantage of it, but there was something that she needed to do and something else that might be good for Mother to do.

Twice she had briefly been a passenger on the _Enterprise_ , and once Dr. McCoy had gone on the boat with her and J.T. He'd had a good time, she knew. She also knew that he'd had a much better time watching her and her father together than he'd had in Vegas, where he'd lost what he called his shirt while both she and J.T. had done moderately well.

If she could get him to shape up, there might be some TR on J.T. And she sensed it would work better that way than the other way around.

He was working when she came in, frowning at whatever it was he was analyzing. Something to do with with Mother, probably.

"Good morning, Doctor McCoy."

He looked up and grinned. "Well," he drawled, and knowing what was coming next, she was ruefully grateful that she could get to the first part of her mission to Sickbay right away. "'Mornin', Mistah Halsted, honey. How y'been?"

It was hard to keep herself from grinning like she always had. But she managed it. "That's one of the things I wanted to talk to you about, sir."

"Oh?" He was still smiling, but she had his attention all right.

"You know I can take a teasing, but things are different this time. I'm in uniform now, sir, and somebody might hear you."

After a moment, he said, "You don't mince words, do you, young lady."

"This is important."

"I can see that."

"Will you talk to the admiral about it too, please, sir?"

"Why me?"

"I already have. He thinks he's trying, but he doesn't really take it seriously."

McCoy nodded slowly. "You mean he doesn't take you seriously."

"He thinks he does, sir. But I crack up easy. If he winks at me or something when he thinks nobody's looking, I might embarrass both of us."

"Um-hmm." The blue eyes studied her thoughtfully. "I'll do what I can, Mister Halsted. You said there was something else?"

"Thank you, sir. Yes, sir. It's about Mother. Is Spock still with her?"

McCoy frowned. "Not at the moment. He doesn't know how to be on leave on board the _Enterprise_ , and I suppose I can't blame him. T'Ara's with her. He's on the bridge."

She felt a small shock of fear. "What will Starfleet think about J.--about Admiral Kirk being in command if Spock is on duty?"

"Can't close the horse after the barn door is out." Jill giggled then, and he said softly, "Ah. She can still smile."

"Yes, sir. It's just that--"

"I understand, Jill," he said gently. "What about your mother?"

"I think she'd really like to watch the undocking. There's a big screen in where she is, and there aren't any other patients in there." He was frowning again. "I really think she'd enjoy it, sir."

"She's exhausted."

"Is she asleep?"

"No." McCoy set his chin. "She's had a nutrient shot, but there was no Hot--no tranquilizer in it. Your mother thinks she's the doctor here, and Spock thinks he is. Once we get underway, the three of us are going to have to have a little talk about that."

"Yes, sir. But you didn't answer my question."

"You didn't ask me a question," McCoy reminded her grumpily. "You told me what you think she'd like to do in her spare time. So join the club. T'Ara thinks she'd like to have tea, and Spock thinks she'd like to play mind games, and you think she'd like to watch a vid. What is this--a damn hotel? I'm a doctor, not a bellhop."

"Tea? Mother never drinks tea."

"Wanna bet?" McCoy jerked his head toward the next room. "Be my guest, Mister Trainee. Sounds to me like your education is just beginning."

  
Mother was in a bed in a blue hospital gown, with lights going up and down on a panel above her head and an empty teacup on the bed stand. The bed didn't look very comfortable, but Jill knew that it was. When her class had toured the Academy, they had visited the infirmary, and she and several others had tried out the beds. They made you feel like nothing was touching you (nothing really was, but you couldn't tell that by looking) and still you felt secure and taken care of. She was glad about that. Mother needed to feel secure and taken care of right now, she knew.

Mother was propped up a little, and T'Ara was sort of curled up next to her. Mother seemed to be telling her the story about the stockings and the cookie dough. Jill had heard the story several times, but T'Ara apparently never had. She was fascinated, but frowning a little. She reminded Jill of Saavik watching the whodilla, and she felt a momentary regret that Saavik was not here with Alpha Group. She could not remember the Greek letter for Saavik's group, but it was a ways down the alphabet.

As Jill approached, her mother held out her hand, and Jill went to the other side of the bed. Mother looked awfully pale, and she wasn't talking very loud. But she looked like she was glad to be where she was.

"T'Ara and I are taking turns telling stories," she said, squeezing Jill's hand. "I've been thinking about when Chris and I were children, so I decided to tell her a story about it." The tears came to her eyes, and Jill squeezed her hand back. She didn't know all the details of her mother's leaving All Worlds. But one thing was sure. It hadn't been Chris's idea. What Dr. McCoy called "mind games" wasn't exactly Chris's line. "Are you all unpacked already?"

"I didn't have much to bring. It's only three weeks, and almost everything is cycled for us. Mother, would you like to watch the undocking?"

"On the screen?"

"Uh-huh. Look. I'll show you."

The screen in the room replicated the image on the main viewscreen on the bridge. But while they were still inside Spacedock, Jill was able to pick up the dockside visual scanners as well. Watching a ConClass undock was a thrill that Jill never got used to, and she wanted Mother and T'Ara to see the _Enterprise_ do it. They both seemed fascinated, but when the ship went to full impulse and the screen showed Earth shooting away behind, Mother closed her eyes against tears. She seemed to cry pretty easily now. T'Ara touched her arm and Jill squeezed her hand again.

"It's all right," she said, squeezing back. "It's just that I miss...." She pressed her lips together.

"Chris and Mary?" T'Ara asked, trying to understand. Always trying to understand.

"No. I wish it were that, but it isn't. It's not logical, little one. Not at this moment anyway. But seeing a world just disappear like that.... Your grandmother warned me. I miss her. And T'Loreth. And Zoe. Do you remember Zoe?"

"She told us that her hair is red," T'Ara answered immediately. "But it is not red. It is 65.46 percent brown and 31.86 percent yellow and 2.68 percent rinse." T'Ara waited politely until her mother and Jill were almost through laughing, and then answered their question before they asked it. "She told us about the rinse."

"All two point eight six percent of it?" her mother asked, not quite steadily. There was color in her face now, and the tears were gone.

"Point six eight percent," T'Ara corrected her patiently. "No. She called it a smidgen. Are you familiar with that unit of measurement, Mother?" But deep in her eyes, something was sparkling.

  
Once back on the bridge of his ship, James Kirk almost forgot the reason he was there. Almost.

Jill was right, he knew. His reprieve might well be a direct result of Sarah's illness, but given the choice, he would never have wished it that way. So we go on from here, he told himself. But the exhilaration he felt at being in the center seat with Spock at his accustomed place at the science station was still tinged with guilt.

Although he had avoided expressing his thoughts to Spock, he was convinced that they were taking Sarah home to die. Entirely apart from what he knew that event would do to Spock, he found that the phrase "with a heavy heart" was continually on the edge of his consciousness. He and Sarah had never been in love, and yet.... _We did,_ he had told Jill once. _And we do._ They had given one another a priceless gift, the golden child who now insisted on calling him "sir" (and she was right, he knew. Just as McCoy was right, damn him) and looked at him with very nearly the same eyes that looked back at him from the mirror.

Sarah's gift of self, and his.

He liked to think that he had given her something of himself, something of worth to her, when she had taped to him after V'ger. At any rate, he had tried. Little enough, he thought. For he also knew that she had given him back his heart's brother and his good right arm for the last ten years. Wherever Spock might have wished to be, his captain knew that his Vulcan-bred sense of duty would have won out if his bondmate had ever tried to hold him to her, to their child, and to his home world. He knew that she had done what she'd done for Spock, not for him, and he knew why. But he as well as Spock had been the beneficiary of her generosity of spirit.

 _Tell me what I can do for you, Sarah_ , he thought, resolving to try to say something of the kind to her as soon as time allowed. _Tell me what of myself I can give you that would mean as much._ Hopeless. And much too late....

"Admiral?"

He had been woolgathering over a clipboard while his yeoman waited patiently for a series of initials. But the voice that now spoke to him from just off his right shoulder was not the yeoman's.

"Yes...Mr. Spock?" Took you all this time to catch up with me, did it? You must be slipping. McCoy was on me about Jill before we cleared Pluto.

"The passenger manifest does not list any Starfleet dependents on board," Spock informed him quietly. "Is that an oversight, sir?"

"No." Without looking up, Kirk began to scroll the clipboard screen, initialing. "Command decision, Mr. Spock," he said lightly. "You're not the captain yet."

"Regulations require--"

"No regulations have been broken. I'll get around to it." As long as Sarah was not officially on board, no physician of record was required to approve her medical care.

"May I ask the reason for the delay, sir?" Spock persisted. As if he didn't know.

"You may ask." Aware that the yeoman had turned aside in conversation with another crew member, Kirk went on quietly, still not looking around: "I might not answer you, though. It's based on one of those human values you don't seem to think much of."

There was a short silence behind his right shoulder, and for a moment he wondered if he had blown it again. Then Spock said softly, "Understood, sir."

He looked around then, grinning, and was thoroughly delighted to see his first officer cocking his eyebrow and looking just a little sheepish.

  
When Spock arrived in Sickbay half an hour later, he discovered that his wife had had another shot. This one contained Hot Milk.

"She didn't want to get you in trouble," McCoy told him bruskly. They stood on either side of the diagnostic bed in which Sarah lay with her eyes closed. She was not asleep, McCoy knew. Fighting it. Damn and blast. Between the two of them, they were going to force him to do what he must. He almost wished there were no starbase in the Centaurus system, and then wondered how he could wish that. The patient's condition was approaching critical. "Now will you please tell me why you two want to go back to Tara? Sarah seems to think that's the answer to everything, but she won't tell me why."

"Nor will I, Doctor." Spock stood looking down at his wife, his shoulders slumping a little.

"Well, you're just going to have to. This--this treatment you've been giving her may prevent further degeneration or it may not. But that's academic at the moment. Her kidneys will fail unless they're regenerated within forty-eight hours. Is there something on Tara that will stop that from happening?"

"There is a probability of--"

"Dammit, Spock--don't spout numbers at me! I'm the doctor here, and she's my patient! Can't you get it through that thick Vulcan head of yours--"

"I find it difficult to understand, Doctor," Spock interrupted him coldly, "why you find it necessary to remind me of that which I already--"

"Now don't you start--"

"Do you two ever listen to each other?" Sarah asked without opening her eyes. Then she opened them to find them both staring at her as though her suggestion were a whole new thought.

"I thought you were going to try to get some rest," McCoy reminded her gruffly.

"That thought had occurred to me. But somehow...." She smiled wearily. "I don't seem to be having much success. A lot of noise in here at the moment." The heavy lids drooped, but she forced them open again, her eyes now on Spock. "I blew it, didn't I? I was afraid--" Confused. Frightened. For him.

"I am not in trouble, Sarah. Nor will I be." Spock sat on the edge of the bed, his long fingers gently brushing her forehead. "Sleep now, my wife. All will be well."

"Where is T'Ara?" she murmured, already only half awake.

Spock glanced questioningly at McCoy, who cleared his throat huskily. "She's in the next room. She's discovered the library computer. I kind of have the feeling you won't see her for a couple hours. At least." By the time he finished the sentence, he knew she no longer heard him. _In the next room_ was all she'd really wanted to hear.

"Give me a reason," he said softly, pleadingly. "For God's sake, Spock--I want to be able to cooperate with you, but what you're doing is only prolonging her pain. Give me a _reason_."

Spock rose slowly, and for a moment McCoy thought he saw indecision in those dark eyes. But the moment passed. "Your reason is not mine to give, Doctor," he said quietly. "My reason, and hers, would not seem valid to anyone but ourselves. The evidence...." He sighed. "She chose freely. That was her right. Now her only answer is on Tara, but the evidence that would convince you no longer exists. The supreme irony is that I destroyed it myself, for reasons that were valid at the time. That is all I can tell you. I shall return in three point five hours. Do not tranquilize her again. Please." And before McCoy could answer, he was gone.

Three hours later, Sarah was awake, her eyes bright, a fever spot on each cheek. "It's started again," she told him. "God, how could I have been such a fool?"

"Sarah, you'll be taken off the ship at Alpha C if I haven't agreed to be physician of record at that time. That's less than twenty-four hours from now. If we were traveling at warp speed--no, no." McCoy put his hand on her shoulder and forced her to lie down. "You don't need an anti-ab. We travel on impulse for the first five or six days on training missions. I'm sorry I scared you. I just meant that if we were in warp, you'd have had a lot less time than this. By now, you'd be there and we'd be long gone."

"How nice for you, Doctor. Just put the whole thing out of your mind. Then when the patient dies, you don't have to feel guilty about losing her. Or if she finally gives in, somebody else has to do the damn abortion. I believe it's called passing the buck."

"Don't get smart with me, lady," he said quietly. "I know you feel like hell, and we both know that physicians are notoriously bad patients. But you're rational, and bedside manner goes two ways. I believe it's called common courtesy."

They glared at each other for a moment, and then she said, "I'm sorry." The apology seemed genuine, but her eyes were still ominously bright.

"Good." He grinned, trying to defuse her. "Now, if you were a Vulcan, I might let you get away with it." Faint smile, still fire in her eye. This one was going to be touch and go. "Sarah, I asked Spock straight out to give me a reason why I should go along with this, and he refused. Said something about evidence--that only you and he saw the evidence, and that nobody else would believe it."

"He and I discussed it," she said tightly. "Last night. That was our decision. All of this should be our--"

"If you were the attending physician, would you go along with this?"

"Sorry. I can't identify."

"You can't be serious."

"Oh, but I can." To his distress, she sat up, her face going pale. "You're the third physician who's tried to tell me what I should be doing, and I'm sick and tired of hearing it. I am sick and tired of having other people telling me whether my child should live or die in the name of hallowed medical science. That decision should be mine and Spock's and nobody else's!" She was almost shouting now, her voice shaking, fists clenched. "This is my baby." She struck the bed with both fists. "It's mine. It's _mine_!"

McCoy felt the color drain from his face, and his mouth was suddenly dry. She couldn't know. Not even a telepath could have picked that up. It was too long ago, and he hadn't thought of it himself for years.

 _The child is mine. It's mine...._

"What's wr--?" She stopped, confused now, shaken by his reaction. "I'm sorry. If it's personal--"

"Not...personal," he said slowly, thinking of Eleen. Remembering how desperately he had tried to make her say the words that Sarah had just cried out spontaneously, from her own heart. How desperately he had worked to establish a bond between Eleen and her newborn child--the bond that Sarah seemed to establish long before her child was in her arms.

 _I want my baby to have me...._

She was about to pass out. Damn. Ask the right questions, Doctor. You might just get some answers without knocking the patient out in the process.

He persuaded her to lie down, and even to relax into a tense half sleep. Respiration too fast. Pulse too high. Fight or flight. He gave her a nutrient shot, swallowing the lump that rose in his throat when she roused but did not ask him what else might be in it. He called T'Ara to sit with her, and then began a slow and thoughtful walk.

 _Mine and Spock's and nobody else's_.

"Bridge," he told the lift, and then rode in silence, thinking about evidence and ethics and choices and self-determination--and the unadorned, elemental beauty of Capella IV, which he had almost forgotten until now.

Everyone on the bridge had a trainee in attendance except the admiral, who was scowling and rubbing his chin. "This is ridiculous," he said as McCoy approached. "They've all done this in sim a dozen times. Why are we showing them how to do it again? _They_ should be the crew, and the crew should be monitoring from.... Problem, Doctor?"

 _Face like a window_ , McCoy thought disgustedly. _Give half a stripe for a little goddamn inscrutability._ "If you have a moment, Admiral, you might want to update the passenger manifest."

Spock turned from his scanner, and the admiral began, "Sorry, but I'm pretty busy r--"

"And while you're at it, sir, you might want to log that Leonard McCoy, M.D. is physician of record in the case of Sarah Halsted."

Spock's eyebrows flew. Feeling more than a trace of guilty satisfaction at having gotten a rise out of him, McCoy glanced back at the admiral, who didn't look nearly as surprised as his first officer did.

"Thanks, Bones."

"You're welcome," McCoy snapped. "Mr. Spock, you're wanted in Sickbay. Come with me, please." And he turned on his heel and headed back toward the lift.

Inside, the first officer and the CMO rode with hands clasped behind their backs, both of them intently watching the location indicator as though they had ever seen it before. Cultural obsession, McCoy thought. Put a human in a lift, and he watches the indicator as though he were steering the damn th--

"Thank you, Doctor."

If the CMO had had his moment of guilty satisfaction on the bridge, the first officer had his opportunity for revenge now. But if he enjoyed it, he was controlling well.

"I am obligated," he added almost gently.

Recovering, McCoy thought again about inscrutability. The hell with it. Hopeless case. He nodded slowly.

"We both are, Spock."

"Indeed."

"May ask if you plan to tell Jim what you and Sarah are really up to?"

"I...am considering it."

"Don't consider it. Do it. If she's a passenger and something goes wrong, it's his head on the block. After all, there are several--shall we say irregular?--aspects of this little cruise."

  
That evening, Kirk and Spock had dinner together. Spock did most of the talking, and neither of them ate much dinner.

"Are you sure?" Kirk asked finally, incredulously. "There couldn't have been much light in the cave."

"The illumination was adequate. His retinas had been completely regenerated." Spock had spent a good part of the day with his wife. According to McCoy, the fetal defense system that was causing her condition was accelerating in intensity and efficiency. The procedure that Spock and Sarah were using taxed her very little, for she was only providing the focus. The energy came from Spock, and he already looked drawn and drained. "Green around the gills" was only too apt a description. Yet his expression was doggedly determined. "We must return there, Jim. It is her only chance."

"Yes." Kirk sighed. "Of course you must."

Spock stared. He had obviously expected an argument, and the fact that it was not forthcoming sent his eyebrows on the rise. "You will authorize the ship to go to Tara?"

"I can authorize the ship to go anywhere I damn please. This is a training mission, remember? We're not under any orders except to knock some sense into these kids. And those are my orders. What the devil are you staring at?"

"You do not require any further justification?"

"Not this time."

"You have questioned my judgment in the past. Why not this time?"

Kirk smiled faintly. "Call it a gut feeling. Sorry. Scratch that. _I_ call it a gut feeling. You can call it anything you like."

After a long moment, Spock asked softly, wonderingly, "How is it that humans _know_ without knowing _why_?"

Kirk's grin spread, but crookedly. "Still us-and-them, huh? I thought we were past that." Slight Vulcan frown. "Remember the tape that you and McCoy 'never saw'?"

"Admiral, I believe it was established at the time--"

"Bullshit," Kirk interrupted with no particular emphasis, and watched the eyebrows fly. "And don't give me 'Admiral.'" He leaned forward, quietly intent. "I said on that tape that I believed you have intuitive insight. That was more than ten years ago. Now I _know_ you have it, and I would like to suggest--shut up, Spock. I'm not finished." He had not raised his voice, for they were not alone in the mess hall. Nor had his tone changed. He was not giving orders. He was having the time of his life. Astounded, Spock shut up. "I would like to suggest that it's illogical for you to reject the best of your humanity when it's as deeply a part of you as your Vulcan side is. It's all one, Spock. It's you. When Exar split you in half, you showed me that the Vulcan part of you is my friend as well as the human part. But it wasn't the Vulcan who snapped me out of self-pity and made me see that I couldn't let you beam down alone. It was the human in you, smiling when I asked you who was letting me win at chess. Then." Delighted, he watched the corners of Spock's turn up slightly. "You _thought_." More than slightly. "Was it logic that told you that Jill was ready to try her wings alone?" No answer. None needed. "That's intuitive insight, my friend. Don't turn away from it. _Use_ it. Anything else is a waste"--grinning--"of material."

Now it was Kirk who expected an argument. But none came. After a moment, Spock said softly, "I would not presume to debate you."

Still grinning, Kirk sat back in his chair.

"That's wise," he said, noting with satisfaction that Spock no longer looked the least bit green around the gills.

  
But by that evening, Jill was sure that she had never seen Spock look so tired.

After she went off duty, T'Ara had told her that their mother was worse because she had skipped a treatment that morning. T'Ara seemed to understand exactly what was going on, but Jill did not. It seemed to her that foiling what the baby was trying to do would hurt the baby, but T'Ara insisted that that was not true. "It does not touch the small one," she insisted, a glint of fascination in her green eyes. "It affects only Mother. The defense is dissipated, not suppressed."

"But what about what the baby's defending _against_?"

"The effects are minimal at this time," T'Ara had answered calmly. "He will be taken before he is threatened."

"T'Ara, why do Spock and Mother want to go back to that planet?"

"I do not know. Are you not aware that they are shielding that knowledge from us?"

Now, sitting with Mother and Spock in Sickbay, Jill let her mind probe tentatively, just enough to confirm what T'Ara had said. The mental shields were all in place, even though Mother was so sick and Spock was so tired. Not taking any chances. She knew now that T'Ara's first knowledge of their mother's danger had come while Mother was asleep, not expecting anyone to come near enough to read her.

She was not asleep now, even though she had closed her eyes for a moment. Worried about Spock. That much Jill could sense. Worried about his mind-numbing fatigue. Loving him. As he was loving her.

They were together as they had never been before.

Spock sat unmoving, leaning forward a little, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled as though he were meditating. But he was not meditating. Vulcan's didn't meditate in a room with two other people, and besides, he was probably too tired. He had been with Mother most of the day, Jill knew, and the mental effort he was expending was wringing him out. According to T'Ara, Mother only had to focus. Spock was doing all the work.

Mother lay with her head turned slightly toward him, and his eyes had barely left her face since Jill came in. Together. Whatever she had sensed about them before--all her life, it seemed--was either gone or...on hold. She frowned a little. The feelings came to her, and her mind put words to them without understanding them. Deliberately, she shut them out. One thing was sure. It was none of her business. She had always known that too.

"You need somebody to spell you," she said aloud.

"There is no other Vulcan on board," Spock said quietly, still looking at Mother.

Jill glanced from one to the other and back. Why hadn't she thought of it before? Why hadn't _they_? "Yes, there is."

Mother opened her eyes, looking sick and scared. "She's just a little girl."

Crazy. Something told her that what she wanted to say now was crazy and wrong and all the rest of it. But everything else told her that it was right. If she could get Mother to laugh again....

"That's what the woman who was standing next to us at the table said to J.T. when we were in Vegas," she said innocently. "Remember, Spock?"

Fingers still steepled, Spock slowly turned his eyes to her. Nothing else moved. Then the eyebrow went, and she knew it was all right.

Mother lay still for a moment, and then she said carefully, " _Who_ went to Vegas?"

"J.T. and I went once, for a couple hours. While he was at Operations. Then when they were in about six months ago, we went back and Spock and Dr. McCoy went with us. We only got to stay about forty-five minutes, though. One of the management types took Spock in the office, and then we had to leave." Mother was already starting to laugh silently. It was going to be all right. She went on, letting herself sound a little like T'Ara sounded when she was being literal. "Spock thought it was interesting. Dr. McCoy thought it was a damn shame that we had to bring a damn Vulcan with us, 'cause he never got a chance to find his shirt." Still laughing silently, Mother held out her hand, and Spock unsteepled his fingers and took it in his. "J.T. thought it was hilarious," Jill added unnecessarily, got up and went to take her mother's other hand, now sounding like herself. "She's a healer, Mother. Sarek knows."

To her relief, she saw Spock nod slightly.

"But--" Again, there was color in Mother's cheeks, and she didn't look scared now. Just worried.

"You don't know how strong she is."

And Spock nodded again.

He rose silently and went to get T'Ara from the next room where she was taking a break, playing chess with the most formidable computer she had ever met. She had been taking a break for almost an hour.

"I better go get some exercise." Jill leaned over to hug her mother goodnight. "She needs to be needed," she whispered as they held each other close. "It's no fun being a little kid when everybody else is grown up. Or almost. Gives you too much time to get scared." She pulled away gently, expecting to see resistence in Mother's face. But there was none. She was still worried. But she nodded, much as Spock had done.

"I know."

"Mother, what are you and Spock going to do when we get back to Tara?"

After a moment's hesitation, her mother told her.

  
It had been an impulse of the moment, but Sarah could not regret it. Like her father, Jill seemed to understand without knowing why, and that understanding gave her hope--something she had not had much of until now, Sarah realized, as Jill hugged her once again.

When her daughter had gone, Sarah lay still, wondering what Jill or her father might have said had they been told the whole story. For she and Spock were still the only ones who knew how Sutek had died, and when. 

But not why.

She closed her eyes again, wishing she were Vulcan and could control her fear. Spock was aware of it, she knew. And she also knew, although he was attempting to shield it from her, that he too was afraid for her.

He and his daughter were coming back.

As Spock explained to T'Ara what the treatment involved, Sarah carefully arranged her shields so that the child would not learn of the danger that awaited her mother on Tara. The rapport was deep at the physical level, but T'Ara, as therapist, would be more than busy doing her job. For a moment Sarah quailed inwardly; no child should have to see what this child's mother would have to show her. But then, she had seen it already. _While I was asleep. Dear God, why didn't I hear her? Why didn't I wake up?_ But guilt was pointless. Spock had already shown her that. That nightmare was over now. And T'Ara had survived. More than survived.

She stood now in front of Spock, who had resumed his seat--so that he could speak to her at eye level, Sarah knew. He was facing slightly away from Sarah, but she could see T'Ara's shining eyes. "Yes," the child whispered from time to time as the deep voice went on and on, speaking Vulcan words that Sarah could barely understand. "Yes.... Yes...." If she had sensed fear, Sarah would have objected. But T'Ara was not afraid. She was.... "May I begin now?" she asked as soon as Spock paused. She was fascinated.

Neither of them was prepared for the effortless ease with which T'Ara performed her assigned duties. Unlike Spock, she was not experienced, not trained, not a seasoned veteran of the melding of minds. Nor was she fully disciplined, and Spock.... Not Spock, Sarah realized. The Image. T'Ara's mentor in this, the most challenging task of her life, was a disembodied symbol that partook as much of Sarek, of all that was Vulcan, as it did of Spock. The Image guided her, restrained her, chided her a little when she flew too fast. Chided her gently, as Sarek would have. Her spirit turned, listened, and flew on. By the time her task was half done, she no longer needed to listen, for she had made the Image her own.

Like parents from time immemorial, Spock found himself unable to withdraw sufficiently to suit his child. Gently she broke the contact and turned slightly to look at him where he sat on the opposite edge of the bed.

"Don't hover, Father," she said, smiling a little. "I can do this all by myself." Piece o' cake, her green eyes seemed to say. And she wasn't even tired.

After a moment of silent contemplation of what he had wrought, Spock looked questioningly at Sarah. The light trance required by the treatment dissolved. She looked back, face expressionless, and raised both eyebrows.

When the treatment was complete, T'Ara still showed not the slightest trace of fatigue.

  
Afterwards, Sarah slept as she had not slept, undrugged, in days.

She woke in what she sensed was the middle of the ship's night. The rest of Sickbay was quiet. The light from the next room was low, and T'Ara was asleep, curled up on the next bed under her mother's shawl.

In the chair next to Sarah's bed, Spock sat meditating.

She lay quiet, knowing that even if he did not sleep, this silent communion with himself would refresh his weary soul. The faint light from the next room gave his hair a slight sheen and threw his face into bold relief. He was at peace, at least for the moment.

She closed her eyes again, drifting, sinking. And across the silence of her mind, the image of a giant insect came rustling dry as leaves, trailing a Vulcan's scream like a plume.

She knew immediately that the stab of terror that shook her awake had broken his trance. Opening her eyes, she saw that he was looking at her, frowning slightly, fingers still steepled.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. He shook his head, barely moving, dark eyes searching hers. Then, as other thoughts crowded into her mind, thoughts that she had been waiting to share with him, he lowered his hands slightly and tilted his head a little to the side. "She read Sutek's genetic code, didn't she?" she went on.

"So it would seem." He glanced briefly over at T'Ara, but she was still sound asleep.

"An idiot savant for DNA."

"Indeed."

"But how does she regenerate living tissue? What would have caused that capability to evolve in her species?"

"I do not know." Again he frowned a little. "But--there was much fire in her mind."

" _What?_ "

"The memory of fire."

"Race memory?"

"I...do not know. My rapport with her was relatively superficial at the time I withdrew."

"I wish I had more training. I've never done anything like this alone," she said, and then wished she hadn't. Her voice was unsteady, and terror hung in it like an echo of Sutek's scream.

The dark eyes gazed back at her, almost unfathomable. Almost.

After a moment, she whispered, "You have to stay out of it."

"No."

"You _must_."

"No, Sarah." He was almost smiling now.

She sat up, caught between the need to scream at him and the fear of waking T'Ara. In what seemed like one movement he was beside her, enfolding her, smoothing back the lank hair that needed brushing so badly, his cheek and then his lips against her forehead. "In this, there is no 'alone.' Not anymore." It seemed that he could not hold her close enough, and with a silent sob, she hid her face against his shoulder. _Don't you think he's too thin?_ she seemed to hear Jill say, and she sobbed again, aloud this time. "Shh." He began to rock her gently, still stroking her hair. "You'll wake T'Ara."

"Sh-she...if we both--"

"Neither of us will die, my Sarah. Sutek did not know he was in danger. We will know."

"That's not--not a very l-l--"

"No," he answered softly. "It is not. But neither of us will die--as long as we do this together."

  
When T'Ara woke, precisely five point five minutes before her mother's next scheduled treatment, Mother was lying down but not asleep, and Father was sitting next to her, the fingers of one hand resting lightly against her temple. He looked up, smiled in his mind and in his eyes the way Grandfather did, rose to give her his place, and held out his hand, laying it on her shoulder as she drew near.

"Thank you," she said uncertainly, not sure whether he was going to hover again this time.

The smile in his eyes deepened. "The obligation is mine," he said quietly, and there was something in his voice that made her smile too, but not just with her eyes. He sounded like....

Like Grandfather. When he was proud of her.

  
By the next evening, the night before their ETA on Tara, Jill felt that she knew the ship by heart.

That was pretty silly, she decided. Her duty station during the first part of the mission was Life Sciences, and Spock, who seemed to be everywhere at once now that he wasn't tired anymore, had designed a regimen that kept the cadets in that unit scrambling. But there were breaks, and there were meals, and she didn't need to eat much as long as she ate the right things. So she went exploring. She went to Engineering, where Mr. Scott was careful what he called her except once, when he called her "lassie." She saw the shuttle bay, and the observation deck, and the officers' mess. She located photon torpedo tubes and phaser banks. Finally she went to the bridge, where the admiral informed her politely but firmly that she was not allowed to be until she was on duty there. She left, feeling a little funny about getting what she'd asked for. There had been nothing in his eyes or in his voice to suggest that he had ever seen her before.

Exercising in the gym, she decided again that she had been right to insist that J.T. treat her like he'd treat any other trainee. The problem was that she wasn't sure if he was mad at her. It was hard to tell, when he was being so polite. Swinging upside down from the rings, she came to the conclusion that she would just have to wait until the mission was over to find out. Having decided that, she swung up and then down again, and was beginning to think about taking a shower and going to see Mother when she realized that somebody was walking toward her and then standing in front of her as she swung slowly back and forth, thinking.

She came upright and dropped lightly to the floor as soon as she realized it was J.T.

"Mister Halsted," he said, "I need a briefing. May I trouble you for a few moments of your time?"

He had been exercising too, and still didn't have his shirt on. He was smiling pleasantly, like he had on the bridge, but he looked a little tense for somebody who had just had a workout. Had she done something wrong?

"Yes, sir." He gestured toward an unoccupied mat, and they sat down there, she with her arms around her knees and he with his arms resting on his. For the first time, she realized that they were almost alone. Two crewmen wrestling on the other side of the room were its only other occupants. "Is there something wrong, sir?"

"I don't know." He was not smiling now. "Jill, I need your help. Can we just talk for a minute? Nobody can hear us."

"All right." She sounded a little too eager, she thought, but he didn't seem to notice.

"What do you remember about the life forms on Tara? Do you remember a large insectoid creature that looks like a giant ant?"

"You mean the thing Mother and Spock think can help her?"

He seemed to relax then, and rested his forehead against his wrists for a moment. "Good. I didn't want to have to play games with you."

"Mother told me about what they're going to do. She said Spock told you."

"He did. But--" He raised his head and touched the back of his neck lightly. "Something doesn't fit. I don't know what it is, but something about this whole thing is bothering the hell out of me. Could they be in any danger down there?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. Why?"

"I'm wondering if they should beam down alone--if somebody should go with them."

 _No._ She pressed her lips together to keep from saying it aloud. He would only ask her why, and she wasn't at all sure she could explain it. "You mean you."

"You got a better idea?" He was looking at her closely. "What's the matter?"

She didn't want them to have this talk at all, she decided. If she said what she was thinking, he really would get mad. But all she could think of was Mother and Spock last night, and Mother saying _And who of us would be happy then?_ all those years ago. She just had to say it. There was no other way.

"She's let you have him for ten years, J.T. Now maybe it should be her turn."

For what seemed like a long time, he just looked at her. Then he said softly, "What do you think you mean by that?"

"Nothing I haven't said. He goes back and goes back and goes back with you, and she's never tried to stop him because she knows it would tear him apart. Now they have to do this together. Alone. _Please_ let them do it alone."

"Are you in telepathic contact with them?"

"No. They shield. I shield. It's what I was taught. Spock too. Mother taught herself. T'Ara's learning. I mean, she was. She still slips. They don't. Not with me."

"Then how do you know...." He stared at her for another long moment. "You... _sense_ what other people are feeling. The way your mother does."

"I guess so."

"What do you remember about this insect?"

"It's big. It's harmless. Never hurt anything. Never bothered us."

"Did you ever get close to it?"

"Once. I think...I think Mother chased it away from me."

Sharply: "Why?"

"I was practically just a baby, J.T. And it's...pretty weird-looking up close."

"Did it scare you?"

"I...." Blank. She could see the thing in her mind, but that was all. Blank. Nothing. "I can't remember."

"Was Spock there when this happened?"

"I don't think so. I can't remember."

He got up then, took a turn, and then swung around to face her again. "Spock said Sutek's retinas were burned. The ant healed his burns, but he died anyway."

"From radiation?"

"Spock...implied that. But he didn't actually say it." He smacked one fist into the other. "Something just doesn't fit."

"They have to do it alone. Together."

"But why?"

"They _have_ to."

" _Why?_ "

"I don't know! They just do." She would not look away, and neither would he. "If there was any danger, he'd tell you."

"Wrong, Mister Halsted."

"You were the one who said nobody second-guesses Spock."

"I did?"

"You said they hardly ever get to do anything together, and then you--" The answer came tumbling toward her, and she knew he saw it too. But she had to say it anyway. "Maybe _that's_ why." When he simply stared at her, she looked away and put her cheek down on her hands. "Go ask them if you don't believe me."

When he didn't move or answer her, she realized suddenly how quiet it was, and that the wrestlers had left while they were talking. Then he came slowly toward her and hunkered down like he had the first time she ever saw him.

"I know you believe what you're saying, Jill," he said quietly. "But that's not enough. I'm sorry." She felt him lightly kiss the top of her head. "Sleep well, Mister Halsted." He waited, but when she did not answer, he got up and left the gym.

It was a long time before she did the same.   


He thought about going to see Sarah in Sickbay ( _Tell me what I can do for you that would mean as much_ ), but he did not go. He thought about talking to Spock again, but he did not talk to Spock again. He went to bed, and spent most of the night thinking about how wrong Jill was. And how right.

Shortly after 0700, knowing that the ship was already in orbit around Tara, he dressed and went to the bridge.

Spock was scanning the planet, but looked up when the admiral approached his station. The relief in his eyes was eloquent.

"The eggs haven't hatched," Kirk said, knowing the answer.

"Affirmative."

"Then you can pinpoint her location."

Spock nodded. "I have done so. She is still in the same area."

"Eggs all over the place?"

"No. She has confined her activities to the Tower."

Their gaze held, and then Kirk asked lightly, "You going to need any help down there?"

"No, sir," Spock answered gently. "Thank you, sir."

All pretense of lightness left him. "Are you going to tell me how Sutek died?"

There was a moment's silence, and then Spock said softly, "No, sir."

"Spock, this is--"

"Jim--don't." The tone was almost without emotion. The eyes said it all. "Please."

Kirk turned away abruptly, furious with both of them, remembering all the times that he and McCoy had tried to get Spock to express his deepest feelings. _Be careful what you wish for, Jim_ , he thought savagely. _You just might get it_.

And yet: _We can't pick and choose...._

Ten minutes later, he was in the transporter room when Spock and Sarah came in. She looked better than he had expected her to--pale, unsteady, but walking under her own power even though Spock's arm supported her. As soon as she saw Kirk, her eyes sought his, bluer than he had ever seen them. And in their depths, he saw something she had never felt toward him before.

Fear.

"Shouldn't you be wearing something a little heavier?" he asked, moving toward them, willing the fear away. She wore a hospital gown, blue as her eyes and Spock's shirt, and her feet were bare. Around her shoulders was a large shawl that looked as though it weighed nothing--blue and green swirls of something thin and faintly iridescent.

"I walked that beach barefoot for four years," she answered quietly. "I don't need shoes to walk it now. The climate's semi-tropical all year 'round." Eyes searching his. Pleading.

 _I have to,_ he thought. _You're in danger._ He's _in danger. How can you ask me to...._ Nothing but the fear now. She wasn't even pleading anymore.

He turned his gaze to Spock's, dreading what he might see there. But there was no fear. Only understanding, and trust, and love.

He took a deep breath, and tried to think how to say it some other way. But there was no other way.

"Don't stay for lunch," he said, and saw a smile that he had only seen once before. Then it had drawn him to the gallows foot. Now it dissolved the hurt inside him, and he found himself grinning.

Sarah made a small, inarticulate sound. No fear there now. Tears of weakness and relief welled up and spilled over, and he felt his own eyes sting as he wiped her tears away with his fingers as though they were Jill's. She inclined her head so that her cheek rested briefly in his hand, and then he gently turned her face against Spock's shoulder and stepped away to let the beam take them both.

  
Pale green sky, deep green lake. The Tower, inlaid with what looked like chips of glass. Warm breeze against their faces. Home before home.

"All the trees are taller," she said faintly, and almost slumped against his shoulder.

He moved to pick her up, but she protested. "No. I want to walk in the sand."

"Not now." He picked her up anyway and began to walk down the beach toward where they could barely see the bungalow, shielded as it was. The trees around it had been short, skinny saplings when they arrived, and tall, waving saplings when they left. But the previous tenants had apparently planted growth enhancement with their seeds, wanting shade from the blazing mid-day sun as soon as possible. Now the little structure was surrounded and shaded by giant ash trees that looked as though they had been there for decades.

"It must be cool inside," she said. "Even in the late afternoon."

"Indeed." But he was not thinking about the bungalow now. He was looking for the ant, scanning the beach and the lake. She had been just here only a few minutes ago. But now....

There. At the edge of the forest that rimmed the white bowl that was the beach. Unmoving. Watching.

Spock paused, and with her arms around his neck, Sarah could feel the slight inclining of his head as well as the rapid staccato of his heartbeat.

"Do you think she recognizes us?" she asked.

"Unknown." Controlling now. Heartbeat slowing a little. Trying to decide whether to approach the creature or let her approach them.

"I want to walk," Sarah said firmly, and at the same moment, the ant began to move toward them.

Spock hesitated momentarily, and then set Sarah down. _Better_ , she thought. _I feel better here than I have since this started._ Delusion of an exhausted mind in a ravaged body? What did it matter? She began to walk slowly toward the creature, who came toward them more quickly now, rustling as she moved. Dry leaves. No dry leaves here. No seasonal changes. Keep your mind on your work, Sarah.

As she moved forward, the creature extended her antennae as she had once extended them toward the two kneeling Vulcans in the cave. And as Sutek had then, Sarah felt the touch of an alien mind.

Light. Questioning. Simple. The eager, questing mind of a very young child. Very young indeed.

"Be careful, Sarah," Spock said quietly, aloud. "That simple, questing mind can kill."

"We don't know what killed him."

"Don't we?"

She stopped then, knowing he was right as she had always known it. As they had both always known it. Meeting the creature's many-faceted gaze, she projected acceptance and reassurance even as she said aloud, to Spock, "I'm sorry."

"'Sorry' will not keep you alive," Spock said gently. "Think of the child's safety if the thought of your own does not move you to caution." She felt him put his hands on her shoulders from behind. "I will protect you both as much as I can. But I must have your cooperation."

"Yes," she said quietly. "I know that. I'm s--" She bit her lip, and felt him briefly touch his forehead to the back of her head. _Together_ , his mind whispered through their link. _Watchful. Together._ "Yes," she said again, and stood still under his hands, letting the creature approach them.

When she paused, antennae outstretched, Sarah felt the hands on her shoulders exert a slight downward pressure and remembered that Spock and Sutek had been kneeling when the creature made contact, their heads on a level with hers. She dropped to her knees in the fine sand, and he did the same, hands still resting lightly on her shoulders.

Antennae waving. Wordlessly asking permission. No aggression there. Simple as a child. Killer child, asking _Can I take your hand?_ Sarah shivered, and the creature moved away a little.

"Sit down," Spock said softly. She sat, pulling her feet under her, and he sat down behind her, putting his arms around her and laying his cheek against hers. "Accept her, as Sutek did," he whispered. "I will watch alone until you have made contact."

Sarah extended her hand, and the creature moved closer once again, reaching out with her holding maxillae. Watching this happen to Sutek, Sarah had shuddered involuntarily, and she felt Spock controlling now. But Sutek had not been killed on contact. She remembered green blotches fading the light of the flame, and a naked, elfin child dying in his satin bed, and Zoe's voice in the same dream: _Is he in trouble yet?_

She accepted.

 _Where?_ the creature's mind seemed to say, and in the ant's memory Sarah saw a vivid image of Jill as a small child--pale hair tousled, hazel eyes alight, freckles sprinkled across her nose. _I'd forgotten how beautiful she was_ , she thought, and realized that Spock was no longer outside the meld as his arms tightened a little. In the creature's memory there was joyful curiosity and recognition, the spontaneous mutual response of two children touching each other's minds--two children, neither of whom had ever met another child. But Sarah immediately perceived the horror in Spock's mind, and shielded so that the ant would not perceive it too.

Jill had not been resisting at all. The reflexive checks and balances of a shielding telepath, exercised almost without conscious volition by Sarah and Spock now and by Sutek in the past, were unknown to Jill at the age of four. At this point in the contact, where they were still quite safe, Jill had not been. Her mind had been almost literally sucked into the ant's.

"She didn't say _I had no arms_ ," Sarah whispered, and was grateful that her inadvertent use of speech did not seem to damage the contact. "She said _I had arms_. She was--she _was_ this animal until I pulled her away." Not dying, she thought. Worse than dying. Trapped. Here. In this creature's mind. Forever.

"Do not think of it now," Spock commanded softly. "It did not happen. Do not think of it now."

But the creature was thinking of it. And in that vivid-vacant memory, Sarah saw that it was not the physical act of pulling her away that had saved Jill's mind, but the child's emotional response to the frantic embrace of another human who loved her. The ant had not understood then, and she did not understand now--now, the first time she had thought of the incident in the ten years since it had happened.

 _I can't believe this is really a mind_ , Sarah said silently, knowing that the ant, who was still wordlessly asking _Where_ , would not understand her.

 _Your life may depend on your believing it._

Sarah had barely assimilated Spock's answer when the ant began to perceive that there was something wrong with her.

The strength of that probing mind almost panicked her for a moment, before Spock's mind steadied her. How right he had been. She felt turned inside out and examined minutely, and in the ant's mind the image of Sutek appeared, as vivid as the image of Jill had been. Burned face, burned retinas, dark sightless eyes. Sutek was there, and Sarah felt her own eyes mist. Solid, unpretentious Sutek, leaning into the meld, wanting so desperately to see again, totally unafraid at the point where Spock had withdrawn from the three-way contact. Logical that he should be unafraid. At that point, there had been nothing to be afraid of.

 _When will it come?_ she asked Spock silently. But before he could answer, the ant discovered the child Sarah carried.

 _No!_ Pure instinct made Sarah draw back, horrified, even before Spock broke their contact with the insect. She had been about to "heal" Sarah of the child; having perceived that he was genetically different from the host body, she had decided that he didn't belong there.

Free of the telepathic meld, Sarah realized peripherally that Tara's yellow sun was lower in the sky than it had been when the creature made contact. An hour? Could it possibly have been that long? "That was close," she said shakily, aloud, relaxing momentarily against Spock, who held her tightly. "Back off, big mama," she said to the ant, who stood by silently, antennae waving. "That egg's off limits." Unsteadily: "Five years wait-listed, custom specs." Her voice broke.

"Tell her that," Spock said huskily into her hair.

"What?"

"As soon as we re-establish contact, verbalize the idea you just expressed. Feel it."

"She doesn't understand words."

"Verbalizing your thoughts and feelings will make them more easily perceivable to her. She is a mother, Sarah. She will understand."

And she did. _This is my egg,_ Sarah told her calmly. _It's mine. I am the mother. It's mine_. Mentally, the ant backed off, and was immediately distracted by the chaos of partially destroyed organs in the vicinity. Then the fire came. It was indeed a racial memory: eons during which the planet smoked and buckled in the throes of giving birth to itself. Insect creatures, virtually identical to their descendant ( _Like sharks_ , Sarah thought, and Spock thought back _Indeed_ ) but much smaller and much more mobile, scuttled through the steaming ashes, most of them dying of their burns, a rare few able to heal themselves. The healers survived to heal again, others as well as themselves as time wore on. Even other species.

 _No one will believe this_ , Sarah thought, as the ant began her genetic reading lesson. But as the excitement of observing a miracle flooded through her, Spock's voice cut through her consciousness like a knife, speaking aloud.

"Sutek may have lowered his shields, Sarah--just as you are doing." There was no gentleness in his voice now. "Watch."

Chastened, Sarah began to raise her shields, and the ant began to withdraw from the contact. Sarah braked, and they hung stalemated, the ant waiting meekly for her decision.

"She won't do it if I'm shielding," Sarah said aloud, trying to keep the despair out of her voice. "Maybe she can't."

"That is possible." Slowly, as though he were still thinking the question through (as indeed he was, she knew), Spock released her from his embrace and moved his hands to her temples. Feeling his withdrawal from the three-way meld, she almost panicked again. But he was not gone from her mind. The bonding link remained, quite capable--as they both knew--of informing him, physically touching her as he was, of anything that was happening in her mind or in her emotions. Once, in the next room, he had heard her mind screaming that Chris's alternate had kidnapped her child. Now, she had not the slightest doubt that he would know everything that happened between her and the insect. A great wave of relief swept through her. He was out of it--still with her, still touching and touched, able to shield her, but out of it. Whatever had happened to Sutek could still happen to her, but not to him. Not now.

Reconciled and literally of one mind, she and the ant began again.

But where was the danger? Still, after all that had happened, nothing had happened. Nothing that explained that Vulcan scream.

Soon she almost forgot the scream.

As a twenty-third-century physician, she understood the theory of organ regeneration through medication although she had never learned it consciously. Internal medicine was not her specialty, and so she had listened to tapes on regeneration under hypnosis, a practice that was approved only for the learning of material in specialties other than the student's own. As the ant proceeded, she saw happening in her own body what her unconscious mind knew happened when a patient with a dysfunctional organ took a regeneration capsule. New tissue grew, following the genetic plan present in each cell of the organism. But unlike regeneration medication, the creature's ministrations did not deform or kill the fetus Sarah carried. He, as Sarah had informed her, was off limits, and off limits he remained. Total selectivity.

Spock was fascinated. But still he kept vigil. There had still been no indication of the cause of Sutek's death.

As the healing proceeded, Sarah began to experience an overwhelming sense of well-being. It had been so long since she was well, so long since she had risen in the morning looking forward to the day, taking her healthy body for granted. But she did not take it for granted now. As the regeneration process neared its end, the joy of living filled her, and for the first time in months she began to look forward to life yet to be lived, to rejoice in her own identity, in that which was Sarah Halsted. The months of suffering had taught her much about those she loved, and even more about herself. Her self. That which was Sarah....

Sutek's eyes, dark with joy.

The image obscured all others, and then she remembered what had happened next. Too late, she remembered what had happened next, when Sutek's rejoicing in his own wholeness had threatened the identity of the powerful mind so deeply entrenched within it.

The ant too remembered, and in a second, Sarah relived that moment from within the creature's mind. Fighting to save her own identity, she had lashed out with the most primitive kind of self-preservation--the only kind she knew--seeking to imprison her attacker within her mind forever. Within the mind of an imbecile. Forever.

And Sutek had screamed, fought back, and died for it. The awesome psychophysical power that had healed him in minutes had killed him in a second. But Sutek had been alone. And even the mind of the alien ant was no match for a million-year echo.

It seemed to Sarah that something exploded in her mind, the conduit between Spock's mind and the alien's. If that explosion, breaking her contact with the alien's mind, had been anything but purely instinctive, it would have been too late. Like an explosion in a tunnel. Or like lightening striking, with her mind as the conductor.

She seemed to lose consciousness, find it, lose it again.

When she found it once again, her mind was the white bowl of the beach, with another identical bowl turned upside down on it, rim to rim.

 _So quiet_ , she thought dreamily. After struggling so long, she had come at last to this peace. _There isn't anybody else here. No wonder people fall asleep in the snow and never wake up. It's because it's so quiet. Everything white, except...._ Except there at the horizon, where white met white, a dark, many-legged thing was crawling.

It did not frighten her. Nothing could frighten her here. It was too peaceful. Something wouldn't let her fall asleep, though. She had no idea what it was, and she couldn't see it or hear it. But it would not let her fall asleep.

It seemed to be shaking her.

She understood then that she would never get out of this bowl without Spock's help, and that he too was telepathically exhausted, neutralized. She roused a little, trying to remember what to tell him to do. Something he ought to be doing. But he wasn't.

But he was.

The yellow sun shone in her eyes, shone low in the sky now. She closed her eyes and silently clung to the other half of her soul, even as he clung to her.

"If I were all human," he whispered, "I would have known how to reach you so much sooner."

"If you were all human," she reminded him, "I wouldn't have been there to reach."

He did not answer, and she was about to hide her face in his shoulder when she realized they were not alone. "Let me go to her," she said. "Just for a minute, my love. Please." When he reluctantly complied, she rose and turned to face the alien.

The ant had withdrawn a short distance. Approaching her slowly, Sarah remembered the glistening compound eye that had pleaded mutely against imagined retaliation after Sutek's death. The ant did not seem to be in a panic now, but she was obviously confused and disturbed.

"I'm all right," Sarah said softly, remembering what Spock had said about verbalizing her thoughts and feelings. "I know you didn't mean to hurt me. I understand." She did not hold out her hand this time. Nothing, not even gratitude, could make her invite mental contact again. "Thank you. You know that you saved my life, don't you?" No response. The creature had no idea what she had done, or what she had almost done. "Take care of your babies," Sarah finished, her voice breaking on the last word. "None of us will ever bother you again. I promise."

Without hesitation, the creature turned and moved away. She seemed quite calm now, as though a worry had been lifted from her.

Watching her rustle slowly away in the slanting sunlight, Sarah took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and then let the breath out slowly. _I'm free_ , she thought. _Back to square one, with T'Ara to help me._ "God," she said aloud with a small sob of pure joy, "I wish I could brush my hair."

She turned around, took two quick steps, and then she ran.

She had never felt such joy in him. His mind and his body sang with it, and with a hunger that shocked and delighted him at once. But even as her mind and body responded, she remembered something else. _Not this time_ , she thought, caressing his mouth with hers one more time and then pulling away a little, breathless with shared longing, but determined. _Not this time_.

"Maybe you better call home." She ran her finger over his lips as his human self had once touched hers. "Before they decide to rescue us again."

  
The highly unorthodox landing party of two had been planetside for precisely one hour and forty-six minutes when the com unit on the arm of the center seat said, "Spock to _Enterprise_ ". The admiral, who had finally been distracted for almost two minutes by the gaggle of trainees and official babysitters infesting his bridge, almost jumped out of his skin.

"Kirk here."

"Mission accomplished, Admiral." Just like that. Almost no emotion in his voice.

After a moment, Kirk asked softly, "Is she...all right?"

"Yes." Gentler now.

"You?"

"Yes."

When he could speak again, Kirk asked, "Are you ready to beam up?"

"Negative, sir. Request permission to remain until the training exercise is completed." Spock was well aware that Kirk was using the stopover at Tara as an opportunity to practice orbital maneuvers and mapping operations. As far as the rest of the crew was concerned, that was the only reason they were there at all.

 _Why?_ It almost slipped out. Then he seemed to hear his own voice, long ago in the briefing room: _You want to go back and find it again._

"Permission granted." Kirk lowered his voice. "This is going to take a while. These kids are driving me nuts."

"Acknowledged, Admiral," said Spock, who had been on the bridge most of yesterday.

"We should be in orbit another two or three hours. Will that do?"

"That should be adequate, sir." Spock's voice seemed to fade out a little.

"You still there?"

"Affirmative."

"Fine. Well--uh, Mr. Spock?"

"Sir?"

"Don't leave anything behind. Kirk out." He slapped the connection closed and bounded out of the chair. "Mr. Sulu," he said to one of the babysitters at the console directly in front of him, "you have the con. I'll be in Life Sciences." And off he went.

Sulu dropped into the center seat as his partner drifted over to it, eyes still on the trainee navigator as though he could monitor her by telepathy. " _Vat_ is going gon thees time?" he asked quietly. "Or do ve guess?"

Sulu shrugged. "I dunno. Guessing's what we've had the most practice at."

Chekov glanced at him and they both grinned. Then, turning his eyes again to his charge, he said with elaborate casualness, "Hev you noticed a PREPDIV trainee named Halsted?"

"No. Where's his unit?"

"Hers. She's in Life Sciences now."

"Oh, you mean Spock's--the kid the captain brought on board a couple times? Come on, Pavel. Robbing the cradle isn't your line o'work--uh--play?"

Chekov shook his head briefly; he obviously had something else on his mind. "Ven you see her again, tell me if she reminds you of anyvun."

"Who?"

"Meester Sulu," said Mr. Chekov, "I vould not care to speculate aloud on dat subject vitout eenput from staff." He grinned again, dark eyes dancing now. "Report back in vun point five Standard days." He moved off toward Navigation.

"Pavel`?"

"Mark," said Pavel, and reassumed the task of trying not to go nuts himself.

The Life Sciences PREPDIV group was having a lecture from the library computer. Pausing in the doorway, the admiral noted with satisfaction that the entire group seemed to be paying close attention. All but one.

A trainee in the last row sensed his presence and turned, began to rise to his feet. Kirk shook his head silently and pointed to Cadet Halsted, who was fortunately sitting on the aisle. The trainee in the back row got up silently and tapped her on the shoulder, pointing back at the admiral, who beckoned. She was out of her seat and at his side in an instant.

"She's all right," Kirk said softly, drawing her away from the open doorway. "I just heard from Spock."

"You mean...you mean...."

"He said she's all right, Jill. 'Mission accomplished, Admiral.'"

Her face was flushed, eyes joyful, beginning to believe. But still she stared, incredulous. "You didn't go with them?"

"No. You were right." He hesitated, formulating the words in Vulcan. "The obligation was mine."

She nodded slowly, just looking at him in a way that he wondered if he could ever deserve. "Sometimes I think you can't be for real," she said quietly, and leaned up to kiss his cheek without looking around to see if anybody was watching. "Request permission to go and tell my sister, sir."

He nodded, and she took off down the hall. After a few steps she gave a little skip, and then glanced guiltily over her shoulder. He winked; he couldn't help it. Then he called apprehensively, "Watch--" Too late. She had half backed into a crewman walking the other way. After she had apologized and been assured by the uninjured redshirt that he was okay, she stood still and pointed after him, mouthing See? at the admiral. She was grinning helplessly now, but had the satisfaction of seeing the admiral silently crack up before she was again on her way.

  
As they walked along the beach toward the bungalow, the setting sun laid its rays across the Tower, glinting off what looked like thousands of chips of colored glass. They paused to appreciate the vastness of that glinting rainbow, standing side by side in the fine sand, in no hurry. They were both whole now, and that would not go away.

After a moment, she said softly, "And the meek shall inherit the earth."

He did not answer, but simply took her hand, his palm to hers, their fingers interlaced. They walked on, hand in hand, like two barefoot children in the midst of summer. He had removed his blue shirt and his boots; in trousers and undershirt, he seemed, she thought, to have been wrought in copper and obsidian.

The trees around the bungalow, home before home, were a small forest now. Pausing a short distance down the beach, they took in the sight without speaking at first. Everything looked clearer and deeper, she thought--the colors richer, the outlines of everything sharper than she remembered. Maybe it was the time of day; sunset did wonderful things for rods and cones, she knew. And yet....

"Was it this beautiful when we were here before?" she asked in awe.

And he reminded her softly of what they both already knew. " _We_ have never been here before."

They had sealed the bungalow as they left it, making it impossible for bacteria as well as animals to trespass there, in the expectation that the structure might be used as a base of operations for some future exploratory operation. It was clear to them both now that there would be no such operation; her cure would be classified because of the terrible danger to any future pilgrim, and this world, about to be returned to its rightful owners, would become a quarantined planet. But the seal had served them well. When they broke it and opened the windows, letting the fresh breeze blow through the rooms, they saw that even dust had been unable to intrude on their privacy. The simple furniture and utensils that had been theirs for four years were untouched, and the cot on which she had been lying when the landing party surprised them still showed the imprint of her body on the exposed sheet.

As she stood looking down, he moved behind her, took the shawl from her shoulders, and laid it on a chair near the head of the cot, then parted the tapes on the back of her light garment, slipped it off her shoulders, and let it drop away from her body to the floor. The breeze blew lightly through the room; it seemed as though she could feel it with every pore in her skin, and that she had never been this naked in her life.

He guided her with gentle hands to lie down and stretch her arms up and away from her body, her hands above her head, then stood up again and stripped himself in what seemed like seconds, his gaze holding hers. Then, lowering his body against her, he laced his fingers with hers, their hands still above her head, their bodies touching in every way possible. Without her volition, her legs spread beneath him; she could not have stopped the movement if she had tried, but she was not inclined, at that moment, to try.

"No," he said very softly, his mouth close to her ear. "Not yet." His lips touched her throat lightly, sweetly, and she began to understand that whatever was going to happen, the one way it would not happen was fast.

What he lacked in worldly experience, he made up for in quiet self-assurance. After three Times together, he knew her body as he knew his own, and her mind was open to him as it had never been before. And so, although they had never loved like this except in their separate dreams, he had no need to ask or even wonder what would give her pleasure in their shared awakening. But even apart from the mind touch, he was deeply in love, his curiosity insatiable and his learning curve astronomical--a combination without peer. He had also had the phenomenal luck to be brought up in a society where unspoken taboos do not sprout like toadstools in paradise; where there is no paradise, there are no toadstools. When their bodies finally joined, they were both near the crest of the wave they had been riding together since what seemed like forever. And when it crested, they soared together.

Dusk had crept in while they loved, and a faint chill with it. Almost without moving, he reached for her shawl, and she realized that he had planned where he put it so that he could retrieve it when it was needed. They both smiled a little, and since she lay supine beneath him with her arms relatively free, she took it from him, shook it out and sent it floating over them both. The golden threads, invisible to human eyes in full daylight and full night, caught the last of the sun's glow. _Look_ , she thought, and they looked together through her eyes at the green and blue and gold entwined.

Slowly he raised himself on his elbows, his hands beneath her shoulders. "And I thought you were beautiful before. Oh, Sarah--" He seemed to be only smiling, but she could feel laughter sparkling within him as it did now within her. "My Sarah, tell me 'I told you so.'"

He had not withdrawn from their final joining, and so she answered without words. Once more he lay down full length against her, drawing his hands down her back beneath her and then pressing her gently toward him. "Again." His voice was barely audible; once more she did not answer in words. A nightbird gave its first call in the trees, and she thought fleetingly of the silvergreen beauty of the beach at dusk. But the thought flew away with the bird, and they saw the beach again, for the last time, by moonlight.

  
As Armstrong rose, and with Aldrin already high over the Tower's shoulder, they had taken one last walk on the beach before he put on his blue shirt again, brushed the sand from his feet, and replaced his boots. Then they sat for a while at the edge of the beach, resting against the low rise near the porch. Her shawl wrapped her shoulders and his arms wrapped her shawl, even as they had done that afternoon.

She drifted a little, and came awake as he whispered: "The ship will soon leave orbit. You can sleep there."

"Where?" she asked slyly, now fully awake and ready to tease him in a way that she knew would delight him. "Will I get a deluxe passenger suite like I did the last time?"

His cheek was against her forehead, and so she could feel the slow smile dawning there. "That," he said softly, "would be most--" Turning in his arms, she hugged him, laughing silently. Although many aspects of human behavior were no longer a mystery to him, he sounded mildly incredulous as he asked, "Why did you ask me when you knew what I'd say?"

"I thought I needed to hear you say it," she answered, realizing only now that teasing him had not been her only motive. "But I don't." She turned her face up to him even as his mouth sought hers. It was with considerable reluctance that, a few moments later, they disentangled themselves sufficiently for the first officer of the _Enterprise_ to locate his communicator.

  
For once in his life, Leonard McCoy was at a loss for words. The pity of of it was, the admiral thought, there were only three witnesses. Almost everybody else was either asleep or at lunch.

The first officer stood at the foot of the patient's diagnostic bed with his arms folded, observing the proceedings with interest. The admiral half sat on the next bed, doing the same. The CMO scanned the patient, who dangled her feet with her shawl across her knees. If she and Spock had been cats, Kirk thought, he would have to suspect that they had disobeyed his last order and lunched on a whole flock of canaries.

She had explained what had happened to her, much more succinctly than Spock would have, using terminology that meant little to Kirk and probably, he suspected, not much more to Spock. It was more than obvious that McCoy was enormously relieved to see her so healthy. But he seemed unable to accept her explanation of how she'd gotten that way. "I don't make house calls, and I don't investigate miracles," had been the longest sentence he'd uttered in the last five minutes. Threatened? Kirk wondered incredulously. No. Not Bones. Left out. He acted like he'd arrived at the party when all the musicians had gone home with their instruments and all the booze had gone home with the guests.

"Sound as a credit," he said finally, smiling for the first time. "Pulse was a little rapid when you beamed up, but it's fine now."

Startled, Kirk glanced at Sarah, who apparently felt his eyes on her and met them with hers. As their gaze held, it dawned on him that his canary metaphor might have been right on target, verifying certain reluctant but persistent conjectures that, throughout the years, he had shared with no one.

The eye contact lasted only a second or two. Then Sarah calmly looked down.

He could not be embarrassed, since she so obviously was not. It was a serene, unhurried withdrawal, setting her own individual limits without a hint of reproof for his inadvertent surmise. She wasn't even blushing.

He turned his gaze to Spock, dreading what he might see in those dark eyes even more than he had that morning. What he saw was Sarah's serenity without Sarah's withdrawal.

"What I can't figure out," McCoy was grumbling, "is why you didn't bring her back up right away, Spock." He leaned toward the diagnostic panel, having noticed something that needed adjustment. "What the hell were you doing down there all that time--taking tricorder readings?"

Without missing a beat, his gaze still holding Kirk's, Spock said quietly, "We were reminiscing, Doctor." If there was a movement of his right eyebrow, it was fractional.

"That's great." McCoy made the needed adjustment. "Seems to me that a critically ill patient who undergoes an unexpected recovery should be examined as soon as p--"

"Bones," Kirk said gently, "knock it off."

Sarah looked up then, and this time her eyes smiled. Then she looked down again.

"Well," said the physician of record, "she should be in bed. Just to be on the safe side. At least until tomorrow. Does anybody have any objections to that?"

If anybody did, nobody said so. And Jim Kirk found himself looking very hard at nobody.

After Sarah and Spock had gone, presumably to follow the doctor's orders, the admiral listened with less than half an ear to the CMO's continued grousing, marveling that for perhaps the first time in his life, Bones had missed every boat going.

"I'd feel more comfortable if she stayed in Sickbay for a while," he confided as they headed for the officers' mess. "Where's she going to stay anyway--with T'Ara?"

"Oh...." Busily punching up lunch, Kirk produced one of his elaborate shrugs. "I wouldn't worry about it if I were you."

"And when you see Spock, you can tell him for me--"

"Spock's on leave, Bones."

"That'll be the day," said the CMO.

"It might," said the admiral.

It was.

  
The few items Jill had packed for Sarah included a white robe with no fastenings but a loose tie at the waist. Late in the ship's afternoon, she showered, put on the robe, sat on the bed where her lover still lay, and began to brush her freshly washed hair. She felt no guilt in taking the time to indulge herself in the activity she had anticipated with such pleasure, for he seemed to take as much pleasure in watching her do it. After a time, he invented a variation that did not include the robe.

"I can't concentrate," she told him, concentrating on getting the words out, "when you're doing that."

"Brushing one's hair does not require concentration." His answer was muffled against an upturned breast. Its mate was being lightly stroked, fingertip touches only, wrist and arm encircling her. His other hand was otherwise occupied. "You are too easily distracted." Her answer was not clearly articulated, and conversation lagged. Eventually, the hairbrush fell off the bed and onto the floor, where it lay for an unspecified period of time.

Gone, but not forgotten.

She dozed in his arms; he rested in hers, devising yet another variation. Rousing to find him already hardening within her, she realized that it was not by accident that they had ended up on the edge of the bed. In one continuous movement, he retrieved the hairbrush, gently folded her fingers around it, and eased over on his back without disengaging from her, deftly keeping her in position with his hands. Straddling him, she understood even without benefit of the mindlink that he somewhat urgently anticipated that she resume brushing her hair to the accompaniment of as much bodily movement as she thought appropriate to the situation. "Slowly," he added aloud, his eyes darker and yet brighter than she had ever seen them. She complied to the best of her ability, which proved to be considerably more than adequate to the task at hand. His eyes caressed her everywhere that his hands could not reach; his hands touched her more intimately. Eventually she dropped the brush again, her own hands tangling in her hair as her body arched backwards. He thrust upward once, twice, and again they were not alone, but together.

They cycled their evening meal. She was ravenous; he ate almost nothing, but seemed to enjoy watching her enjoy anything. She told him of the day she and T'Ara had spent shopping together, and of T'Ara's joy at the thought of making her tea and telling her stories. "It was a family joke," she explained, aware that she was talking with her mouth full and that he couldn't have cared less. She knew so much of his family, and he so little of hers. She told him about the stockings and the cookie dough, and about the tree house, and about the jelly beans.

"Your memories are so different from mine," he said finally. But there was no envy in him tonight. Instead, there was a kind of wonder that they had found one another at all.

She slept, deeply and without dreams, while he prowled the ship, then played chess with the admiral, and sparred verbally with McCoy--simultaneously, she gathered. The experience did not tire him. Rather, it seemed to refresh him. When she was fully awake, he made love to every part of her with hands and lips and tongue until her body sang. Then, as she lay sated and momentarily spent against his shoulder, knowing how her response had already excited him, she whispered, "This isn't fair. You get to do all the fun things."

She knew from his indrawn breath that he perceived exactly what variation she now had in mind. But he was more than willing to play her game. He raised himself on one elbow, and she thought again of copper and obsidian, burnished now with desire.

"'What is fun?'" he quoted softly. She knew that the long-ago conversation in which T'Ara had asked that question was one of her truest memories, and that he had often perceived it through their link. And so he knew what she would say next, and she felt his body go tight with knowing.

"Watch."

Laying her hands on his shoulders, she turned him until he was supine, propped on both elbows, the length of his own body fully visible to him. And he watched, heart pounding, as she began to love him as he had just finished loving her. Watched as she began. But when she finally held the hardness of him in her mouth and the softness of him in her hand, he had long since let his head fall back and closed his eyes. Now he whispered one word--once, then again, then once again--the Vulcan word for _sweet_. The whisper ended in a groan or a cry or a sigh--she did not know which, and ceased to care as he abandoned himself to her touch and her mouth and her love.

They lay together in silence for a long time, feeling the heartbeat of the ship as though it were as audible as their own heartbeats, even though they both knew it was not. The bed covering was on the floor and her shawl draped over his desk chair, but the Vulcan thermal ambience removed the necessity for covering even as the moisture evaporated from their skin.

"Are you cold?" he asked finally, and she shook her head. He drew her closer, gently separating her legs with his hand and then laying it intimately between them. There was no intent to arouse her now, she knew. He simply wanted to touch her there through the night. _Then sleep with me naked_ he said without voice, and kissed away her tears. 

  


  


### Full Circle, Part 4: On Enterprise

  
Her mother had thought of Jill as fourteen years old ever since she had come home for PREPDIV's summer break. In Sarah's mind, thirteen was still half child, and Jill was far less than half child. She might skip and run when her irrepressible vitality overcame her maturity. But her mother knew that the birthday that would occur shortly before the ship reached Vulcan was a milestone only on the calendar. 

Yet milestone it was. And Jill did not attempt to conceal her anticipation when Sarah suggested that they should celebrate it appropriately. "As long as we don't get any nonsense from you," she finished, slightly apprehensive. 

"You can't have a party on a ship without inviting the captain," Jill shot back immediately. "But no presents, Mother. Please. I'd just rather have people. They're the best presents." And she hugged Sarah tight. After she had blown her nose, she added, "And anyway, he and Spock are a set." 

Sarah had made arrangements for private use of one of the smaller recreation areas, and then gone about her business; she still had a few days to think about food and decorations. 

Her business was not complex. Her days were full, but not overtaxing. Spock, as she had anticipated, had cancelled his leave, and so she had a great deal of time to devote to other people and, for virtually the first time in her life, to herself. 

"After all," she had told him, "we can't make love all the time." His answer had been predictable in context, but she knew they were in accord, and she knew that he knew it. His quarters, which almost made her feel as though she were really home at last, had nevertheless given the illusion of shrinking in size at a remarkable rate after the first couple of days. They were both used to full days with many and varied duties and demands. His life had changed now that the _Enterprise_ was no longer engaged in exploratory voyages. But the regimen he had designed for the trainees on Life Sciences rotation demanded a great deal of his time, and his private research remained ever on the edges of his mind. She, on the other hand, had again volunteered her time in Sickbay, where McCoy welcomed her assistance as well as the chance to play mother-hen. And it was also necessary that she and T'Ara continue her treatments in order to avert a repetition of the near-tragic circumstances that had brought them both on board in the first place. 

Now that she was "back to square one" with her health intact, only two treatments a day were necessary. T'Ara came to her father's quarters to treat her mother, and they often sat together in companionable silence afterwards, watching the firepot. She knew that T'Ara too found these rooms a place of peace and a tonic to her home-starved spirit. But even for her, the walls came close after a time. And so they exercised together in the gym, and walked together in the garden, and smiled together when T'Ara would cycle her tea without having to ask if she wanted it. 

"It would seem," Spock told her with a certain wistfulness, "that she and I require a crisis to establish significant rapport." 

"You're her Image. For now, anyway." But she understood. 

"Indeed." He lay with his head in her lap, even as his human self had lain so long ago--without that agony, but troubled nevertheless. 

"You spent three hours with her at the computer last night." 

Up with the right eyebrow. "Three point one six hours." 

"Indeed," she acknowledged solemnly. 

His lips curved in slight smile, but she heard the words in his mind: _But it's not the same_. And then, with wistful longing: _The same as what?_

"You'll find her again," she said softly. 

"I do not understand why you have such faith in me," he said, his voice low. 

"Then you're not a very quick study, my love." 

Still she had time on her hands, and began to realize that it was _her_ time, something she had had very little of in the past. The one thing she didn't have was something to read. She did not like to do recreational reading on a screen. 

The admiral had assured her that passengers, including children, were welcome on the bridge as long as there was no trainee drill in progress, and so they sought him out there. T'Ara immediately gravitated to Communications; Uhura seemed to enjoy having her there, and T'Ara was fascinated by the intricacies of subspace communication. T'Ara's mother approached the admiral, who had just finished making a log entry. 

"Do you have any books?" she asked. 

He grinned at her sideways. "What makes you think I have any books?" 

"Telepathy?" The grin deflated a little. "Jim, I'm teasing. I don't know why I thought so." _Maybe I picked it up from Spock's mind._ But it didn't seem wise to say that either. 

"Mr. Sulu, you have the con." The admiral bounded out of his chair as though he were delighted to have an excuse to get away from the bridge. _How will you last?_ Sarah thought. _If you can't stand it here and you can't stand it there...._ "I'll be in my quarters. T'Ara, will you join us? I have something I want to show you." 

The something he wanted to show T'Ara was an ancient edition of _Winnie the Pooh_ , once embrittled, now restored. Sarah was sure it was over three hundred years old. 

"It's yours," he told T'Ara, and waved away her mother's objections. 

T'Ara made the mistake of opening the book before she said "Thank you." For the first time in years, her mother had to remind her. 

"This is a good opportunity to ask your advice," Kirk said as Sarah joined him on the floor beside his footlocker. The antique Milne had its own special case, but the books in the locker were all more recent editions, although many of them had been written centuries ago. "I know Jill said no presents, but I'd like to give her this--if you think she's ready for it." He handed her the volume, and her heart sank as she recognized the title. _The Diary of Anne Frank._

"Is anyone, ever?" she asked, holding the small volume in her hands but not opening it. "This is part of us too. I'm afraid it always will be. And there is a terrible beauty in this book." 

"Good." He did not smile, but she knew he was relieved that they were once again in agreement. 

They sorted through the books in the locker while T'Ara read silently a few feet away, lotus-like. Sarah picked a Bonner novel, and another by a twenty-second century Vulcan named, ironically enough, Sol. "Their novels are so rare, and they're hard to read. But there's a kind of rhythm to the sentences--almost as though they're all in iambic pentameter," she said. 

"Too long," Kirk said with a grin. But he nodded even as he said it. 

The third novel she picked was twentieth-century science fiction. 

"You'll like it," he assured her. "It's a fascinating--er.... Why the devil do we all do that?" he broke off, exasperated. "It's a perfectly good word." They both laughed, and T'Ara looked up, raised her eyebrows abstractedly, and went back to her reading. "It's a fascinating concept of a utopia. And the hero may strike you as "interesting." Math-genius type. Uh-uh." He grinned and shook his head. "Not _that_ type. But there are...similarities." 

And she thought affectionately, _How interesting, Admiral, that you say "hero" instead of "protagonist"...._

"What is a heffalump?" T'Ara asked in her clear little voice. 

Almost in unison, Kirk and Sarah answered, "Ask Jill." 

  
By the time her birthday rolled around, Jill's training unit had rotated to the bridge. And so she invited her unit, the bridge crew, Dr. McCoy ,and Mr. Scott to her party. "He's on the bridge sometimes," she explained, and then added, "Besides, I like him." 

She then made the decision to sit with her friends rather than with the adults, and invited T'Ara to join her table. Sarah felt a vague disappointment, and suspected that Jim did too. But she could not think of a good reason to object. "Maybe because there isn't one?" she suggested to Spock, who agreed. And it seemed pointless to mar Jill's pleasure in the event. Unlike her father, she did not seek to be the center of her particular universe. But like him, she thoroughly enjoyed it when she found herself there. 

Scott showed up in a kilt, and the rest of the male crew members wore their gold and blue dress uniform shirts--perhaps for the last time, as it turned out. Looking back on the event later, Sarah realized that the only thing that had made the evening less than perfect was Jim's mood. The edict had gone out at last: in four days, shortly after they left Vulcan, the Big Change would invade the recyclers. 

"Next thing'll be white-glove inspections," he remarked lightly as he poured himself his third drink. But there was a bleakness in his eyes as he downed half of it. "To the new order." Disturbed, Sarah glanced at Spock, who was not looking at her. He was looking at McCoy, who was looking back at him. 

_One thing they agree on_ , she thought sadly, and realized that the Scot was watching her from across the table. She smiled at him and went on with her conversation with McCoy. But a few moments later, she noted that Scotty was again looking at her, this time with relieved approval. Sweet man, she thought. 

"Are ye havin' a pleasant trip, Doctor?" he asked. 

She realized abruptly that Spock had heard the question, and that it brought a compelling fantasy to his mind. Biofeedback, she thought. If she'd been able to keep from blushing when Jim.... 

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Scott," she said, firmly not-blushing, and decided that she would not look at Spock, no matter what. 

That resolution lasted precisely zero point five minutes. More or less. 

He was sitting with his hand resting loosely against his mouth, as he often did when he was thinking, she knew. It seemed to her that everything about him shone--the smooth cap of his hair, the formal blue of his dress shirt, and especially his eyes. Dark and bright, with a smile in their depths. And the eyebrow was about to go. 

_Don't you dare_ , she thought. 

Tough as it was on him, he didn't. She had to give him that. 

  
The helmsman and the navigator left the party at the same time. "Report, meester," said the navigator, with a grin. "You're seex days overdue." 

The helmsman gave him his most beatific smile. "I got news for you, son," he said. 

  


Since it was her birthday, Jill had requested and obtained permission to spend the night with her sister. 

"What is a heffalump?" T'Ara asked as soon as they were alone. When pressed, she produced the source material and explained where she had obtained it. 

Jill read several chapters and then looked up, her eyes dancing. "It's kind of like a Whodilla," she said. "But kind of not." And then she had to explain what a Whodilla was. 

  
The next morning, after they had exercised together, T'Ara asked her mother, "What will you name the small one when he is born?" 

"I don't know," Sarah answered. "Your father and I have had a few other things to think about the last few months." But the question stayed with her, and later she would marvel that T'Ara had asked it on that particular day. 

Later that morning, she randomly chose the twentieth-century utopian novel that Jim had recommended, intending to read only for a few minutes. It was hours later that she finally closed the book at the last page and lay back against the pillows. _Yes_ , she thought. _Yes, yes, yes,_ and fell asleep with a smile on her lips. 

When she woke, Spock was sitting at the computer console, and she realized that the whole day had flown while she was worlds away. 

Knowing through the link that she was awake, he turned. "You were smiling in your sleep," he said softly. 

"Was I?" She went to him and put her arms around his shoulders from behind, the book in her hand. "I want you to read something." 

Her cheek against his, she felt his eyebrow rise. "Now?" The screen showed an incomprehensible schematic, with calculations speeding across the bottom of it. 

"Sooner, if possible. Yesterday would be good." 

"I have never understood," he said mildly, "the human proclivity for verbalizing that particular concept." 

She turned his face around and kissed him. "After dinner will be fine," she said. 

  
After dinner, he picked up the book and said quietly, "This is important to you." 

"Yes." 

"Very well." He sat down and began to speedread. The pages flipped, turned, turned more slowly. Lying against the pillows, she began to read Bonner, became engrossed, and surfaced to find him looking at her over a book three-quarters done. 

_Tell me why_ , he sent through their link. She told him, and he smiled. 

"Yes," he said. 

"It's logical." 

"Indeed," he said, and went back to his reading. 

When he had finished the book, he came to lie beside her, his head on her breast. "This ansible she dreamed of," he said quietly. "It is...theoretically possible." 

"Maybe you could invent it," she said, stroking his hair. 

He sighed deeply. "I am a bird with wet wings, Sarah. The knowledge I already have weighs too much for me to be able to fly." He raised himself slightly and laid his hand against her, where their son would soon be kicking. "Perhaps our Shevek will fly," he finished softly. 

They slept in each other's arms although they had not made love. 

  
In the morning, he rose earlier than usual to meditate. She lay dozing, not wanting to disturb him, and woke to find him engaged in the Vulcan equivalent of puttering around. A significant proportion of his puttering involved picking up after her. She had always considered herself to be more than reasonably neat, but certain aspects of her present circumstances had served to encourage her lifelong habit of shedding her clothes willy nilly at bedtime. Spock, who had never lived intimately with another person, was mildly compulsive about clothes on the floor, and he always rose earlier than she did. The saving grace of the situation, and grace it was, was that he invariably did his puttering in the nude. 

She sat up, pulled the cover up, put her arms around her drawn up knees, and watched. 

He turned. One eyebrow. 

"I'm watching you move," she said. 

Both eyebrows. 

"Take it on faith," she said, and held out her hand. "You're up earlier than usual." 

He moved to sit next to her, locking his hands loosely behind her neck, on top of her hair, resting his forehead against hers. She perceived immediately what this conversation would be about, and wondered that it had not happened sooner. She knew that he had picked up through their link her hypothesis regarding what he had been trying to prove on that long-`ago night when they had come together so violently, and also the guilt that she now suffered whenever she remembered it. He found her theory fascinating, and was inclined to agree with her interpretation. But he now felt only a lingering sadness that it had ever happened, and was not emotionally tortured by the memory as she was. 

"Are you acquainted with the term 'guilt trip'?" he asked now. 

She sighed. "Mid-twentieth, isn't it?" 

"Indeed." He withdrew a little so that he could look directly at her. "Do you know what it means?" 

"I guess." The eyebrow. Hint of a smile. Hopeless. "Yes, my love, I know what it means." 

"Then let be," he said softly, intently. "The past cannot be undone. Let go of it, Sarah. Please." 

"Because that's logical." 

"Because it's necessary." She did not answer. "Am I that Spock now?" 

"No." 

"Are you that Sarah?" 

"No." 

He unclasped his hands and spread them wide in a gesture that said as clearly as words, _Then why?_ His eyes were serene except for his love and concern for her. 

She thought, _And I thought you were beautiful before_ , and put her arms around his neck. 

He had laid his hands on her shoulders when she embraced him. But as they both became aware that the bed cover had fallen away, he slowly moved his hands down and around to cup her breasts. She drew in her breath and whispered, "Please don't do that if you're leav--" 

But he wasn't leaving. 

  
Ensign Gardner was about to be inundated with blue-shirted trainees, and he was not happy about it. 

The last unit, he reflected, had just gotten to the point where they knew something when they were rotated to the bridge. Now he had this new crop of dunsels to deal with, an unidentified life form to identify, and a boss who was already two minutes late. This had to be the day, of course. On training missions, the science officer was supposed to be in Life Sciences first thing in the morning, before the troops got there, in case there was something real that had to be attended to. Spock had always been early before. But this had to be the day. 

The life form was in an energy bottle, since it was not solid matter. The bottle was not bottle-shaped, but a cylinder forty centimeters in diameter and fifteen centimeters high that was unofficially called a fishbowl. It sat on a worktable, and Gardner now put his hands on either side of it and leaned on them. 

How the hell had it gotten into the ship anyway? And what was it doing in deep space all by itself? 

Two and a half minutes late. Put you on report, Mr. Spock, sir. 

There was something wrong with the thing. He was sure of it. When security brought it in, it had been a pulsing bright orange lightball, the color of a pumpkin. Now it was the color of pumpkin rind, and it barely pulsed at all. When he came near the fishbowl, the thing inside seemed to pull away. Could it be afraid of him? 

Three minutes-- 

"Good morning, Mr. Gardner. 

Hot damn. "Good morning, Mr. Spock. Sir, there's something over here that I think you ought to see." Garder turned back to the fishbowl and pointed at it. 

"Can it wait, ensign? Trainee Unit C will be arriving in precisely three point...." Spock was abruptly silent. 

Gardner turned around to see the Vulcan slowly approaching, staring at the fishbowl. Looking like he was seeing a-- 

"You must release it," Spock said softly. He moved to the fishbowl and laid his hand on it, almost as though the bottle itself were alive. The thing inside moved away from his hand, pulsing faintly. 

"Sir?" 

"It is in distress," Spock went on, sounding more like himself. "The color--" 

"You know what this thing is, sir?" 

"It is a transmigrating Zethan, ensign, on its way to its home planet." 

"Yes, sir," Gardner said faintly. "You mean that thing is--somebody's soul?" 

"Indeed." Spock seemed to forget the conversation momentarily. Again, he laid his hand on the fishbowl and simply stood there, staring into it. 

"It looks more like a scared little kid to me." 

Spock turned slowly. "Explain." 

"Well, sir, you know how little kids are when they're scared." Not bloody likely. "They sort of--well--cower. I think that's what this thing is doing. Sir." 

Spock stood absolutely still, just looking at him. Then he said softly, "Thank you, Mr. Gardner." 

"You're....welcome, sir." What the hell...? 

"I shall expect to see you and this energy bottle at Airlock 2 in five minutes. We must release the Zethan as a soon as possible. If we delay, it may...." An expression that Gardner could not identify passed across Spock's face. "It may cease to exist." 

"Release...in hard vacuum?" Gardner swallowed. "Sir?" 

But Spock was already on his way out. "Take it on faith, ensign." As he spoke, he made a characteristic gesture with his hands, and Gardner decided that he must be getting back to normal. Mr. Spock never said Move, mister out loud. He said it with his hands. 

Gardner turned to pick up the fishbowl, froze, and turned slowly back to gaze after the departing Vulcan. 

Take it on... _what_? 

  
He did not want Jill to be with T'Ara now. Much as he loved her, he did want her to be there now. 

T'Ara was alone. Dressed for the day in a red Starfleet coverall with black undershirt, permitted cycling for passengers under the age of twelve, she had obviously been meditating, but was just as obviously finished. She was sitting lotus-like on her bed when she responded to the door buzzer. As he came toward her, he saw his excitement take fire in her eyes as her lips silently formed What...? 

"Come." He took both her hands and pulled her to her feet. "Hurry." 

"What is it?" Fascinated already. 

He hurried her along through the corridor, intensely gratified that Airlock 2 was nearby and that they would not be required to take the lift. It was not until they were almost there that he realized that he was still holding one of her hands, and that she, in turn, was holding his. Rather tightly, in fact. 

At the airlock, she smiled shyly at Gardner, whose mouth dropped open until he recovered himself. 

"Dismissed, Mr. Gardner," said Mr. Spock. Reluctantly, Gardner moved off, leaving Spock and his daughter and the airlock watch officer alone in the area. The watch officer had his back to them. 

For an instant, Spock experienced a profound sense of _deja vu_. At another airlock identical to this one, he had rendered the attendant unconscious and left the ship to attempt to contact V'ger. _Seems like yesterday_ , Jim would say. Had said on the day of their windflight. But V'ger was a year ago.... 

And such a year. 

_Sarah._ His mind reached out involuntarily...and touched hers. She was there. There were no words, but she was there. 

_Stay with me now if you can_ , he sent to her. _Share this with me if you can._ He turned his mind to the task at hand, and only then realized that T'Ara had just seen the alien. 

Gardner had set the fishbowl on the deck, and T'Ara now knelt and opened the bottle without a moment's hesitation. Watching her, Spock wondered abstractedly why he was not trying to interfere. He knew that the alien would not harm her. All that was known about Zethans confirmed what he had always known in his heart-- _Yes_ , he thought, _in my heart._ \--that Mimbi had been typical; none of them would hurt another living thing if they could avoid it. And T'Ara was a powerful healer.... 

She had taken the alien into her hands. 

Amethyst highlights. Pumpkin-rind changing to pumpkin. Reflecting in her eyes now. Shining eyes. _Oh, T'Ara...._

She looked up at him then and subvocalized, her lips moving only slightly. 

_Katra._

He nodded, unable to answer. 

  


The officers' lounge was deserted, the lights on low. 

_How do I know?_ he thought. The Zethan had left the airlock two point five six minutes ago. All logic insisted that it was long gone by now. 

But he knew. 

They stood close to the observation window, and the bright ball came close on the other side. T'Ara put her hand on the window, her breath misting it faintly. 

"Why is it here?" she whispered. 

"It is wishing you goodbye." 

"How do you know?" 

_The universe awaits you, Spock. Is that not home enough for anyone?_

"It is...a long story." She turned her head and smiled at him briefly, eagerly. "Yes, I will tell you the story, T'Ara. I would...enjoy that very much." 

She turned back to the window. For another moment, the Zethan lightball lay glowing and pulsing just on the other side of the panel from her hand. Then it shot away into the starfields. 

Watching it go, she stepped back a little and reached for her father's hand. When the light was no longer visible, she turned, put her arms around him and hid her face against him. She was not crying, he knew. There was too much joy in her for tears. 

He held her close to him and shed a tear or two himself, wishing that Sarah could share this moment. And then he realized that she was sharing it. 

  
The captain of the _Enterprise_ was bored out of his skull. And more than a little depressed. 

A part of him rejoiced every time he saw Jill take the helm from Sulu, watched her do her elementary exercises there with the concentration and dedication of a seasoned veteran performing complex maneuvers. But another part of him clanged like a tolling bell. _She'll be here, and I'll be there. She'll be here, and I'll be there._ He had alternated between the two states for several days, and it was getting to him.... 

"Good morning, T'Ara," he said, and wondered why he was feeling better all of a sudden. Red coverall. Green eyes, shining. She looked like-- 

"Good morning, Admiral." She stood very straight, hands clasped behind her back. "A heffalump is an imaginary creature." 

"You don't say." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "And what do you think of A.A. Milne?" 

"The book is interesting," T'Ara said. "Is the teddy bear the Terran analogue of the sehlat?" 

"Tell you what," Kirk said, deadpan. "You go and ask Dr. McCoy that question. He's the expert on...ah...analogues of that type." 

"I have already done so," T'Ara informed him. "He asked me who put me up to it." 

"Oh?" Kirk leaned back, rubbing his chin. "Fascinating. Is he on his way up here now?" 

"No, sir. He gave me a message for you. He said 'Tell the admiral to get off my back.'" 

"I...see." He could not keep the grin from spreading. "Well, you've accomplished your mission. Was there something else?" 

"Yes, sir. I think Pinocchio was real all the time." 

Shining eyes. Sparkling. Punch line coming. "Why do you think that, T'Ara?" he asked softly. 

"I don't know," said T'Ara. "I just do." 

Involuntarily, Kirk glanced at the back of his daughter's head. Sulu was standing behind her, but he could see the sheen of her hair. _That sounds familiar._ But he caught himself in time. "Then you go right on thinking it," he said quietly. "That's about the best reason I know." 

"Thank you, sir." She looked toward Jill, who had been oblivious to her presence until now. Immediately Jill looked around and smiled. T'Ara smiled back. The exchange was so quick as to be almost imperceptible. T'Ara flashed him another shy smile and departed for the lift. 

He sat for a few moments lost in thought, and then rose. "Mr. Sulu, I'll take over for a little while." Sulu moved off obediently, and the admiral took his place. 

As he had expected, Jill was stiff and self-conscious at first, and he didn't feel too relaxed himself. But before long, both of them forgot what it was they had been stiff about. He had been Garrovick's helmsman on the _Farragut_ , and he was convinced that these new kids couldn't steer worth a damn. He had ideas aplenty about how a helmsman should be trained, and he tried out six or seven of them on Jill that morning. It was the best morning he had had since they left Spacedock. 

He had determined that he would maintain official distance, but as the session neared its end, he gave in, hoping that she would forgive him. Leaning over to make a totally unnecessary adjustment, he dropped his voice slightly. "Beats hell outta Raven, doesn't it?" 

To his joy, she turned and grinned up at him. "Yes, _sir_." Then she dropped her voice to a whisper. "The port pads at Vegas are a little small. But we wouldn't have to remember where we parked. Sir." 

  
Sulu had passed an exhausting morning trying to look busy, and now even the other crew members' trainees had gone to lunch. He was feeling a little jaded, but as he watched the admiral and Mister Halsted laughing together, he grinned. 

"Very unseemly display," he murmured to Chekov, at whose shoulder he was standing. "Should we convene a general court or throw a mutiny?" 

Chekov grinned back. "I vouldn't vorry about it. Heppens all the time. Even in Ruhsha." 

"You two look like a couple of doting uncles," said Uhura. 

They both turned to look at her, and Sulu said smugly, "Figuratively speaking," and waited for a reaction. He got one. 

"What else is new?" Uhura smiled sweetly. "Man, you guys are _slow_." As they gaped at her, she made the turn back to her console, and encountered Spock's gaze on the way. Something she saw there emboldened her. "Do we make your day, Mr. Spock?" she asked softly. "Just fractionally?" 

Her answer was one raised eyebrow, arched. 


	9. The Charm

# The Charm

Sarah woke just before dawn, the last of many such awakenings -- how many she had no idea. Each time she had dozed from sheer exhaustion, telling herself over and over _He only lived a few minutes like that. Jim said it was only a few minutes._ And each time she woke sobbing. For the first time since she had become a physician, her professional knowledge repeatedly violated her soul, whispering obscenities.

As the horizon grew light, she wept silently, grateful for Amanda's presence in her life, and hers in Amanda's.

Still wearing the tunic and loose trousers in which she had lain down on the couch, her hair still tangled on her shoulders, she stepped though one of the long living room windows into the courtyard where Jim had fallen into an exhausted sleep almost two hours before.

One moment he had rested his head on the back of the chair, and the next moment he was sleeping as though drugged.

Amanda sat opposite him, as though she were keeping vigil. _Over the dead,_ Sarah thought irrationally. But it might as well be. Whatever Jim was, it could hardly be called alive.

Amanda sat with her elbow on the arm of her chair, her hand shading her eyes. Sarah went to her and put her arms over the other woman's shoulders from behind. "I'm sorry I had to run and hide," she said softly, laying her cheek against Amanda's hair. "Have you been here all the time?"

Amanda nodded, took her hands and held them tightly for a moment, then turned and looked up. For the first time since Sarah had known her, she looked old. But she was obviously not thinking of Spock now. "It's a good thing they didn't expect him back on the _Enterprise_ for several hours. I don't think he's stirred."

"It's probably the first time he's slept." Sarah straightened, her eyes still on Jim. " _Damn_ McCoy." She struck the back of Amanda's chair with her fist. It was good to be able to hit something. "How can he let Jim walk around in this condition? He has every resource of twenty- third-century psychomed at his command. What can the man be _thinking_ of?"

"Judge not." Amanda sighed. "My dear, Jim doesn't need every resource of twenty-third-century psychomed. He needs to cry."

"But he--he must have. Spock all but d-died in his arms."

"No," Amanda said softly. "He didn't."

Sarah felt her own tears begin again, even as Amanda's did. Moving to her mother-in-law's side, she dropped to her knees, laid her arms across Amanda's lap and hid her face in them. "Oh, God, when will it stop?" In her mind, she saw the only visual detail that Jim had shared with them: two hands, fingers spread in Vulcan leave-taking--one on one side of a transparent partition, one on the other. "Will it ever _stop_?"

"It hasn't even started--for him. He's still denying. He couldn't even touch him, Sarah. Put yourself in his place."

"I have." She drew a deep, shuddering breath and raised her head. "Believe me, I have. But--what can we do? He's only going to be here a few minutes, once he wakes up. I can't treat him as my patient."

"Then treat him as your friend. Get him talking. It works that way sometimes. Some memory--something they shared--"

"Amanda, they were together for years on the _Enterprise_. He must have a thousand memories of Spock that I know nothing about."

"And you'll only need one of them," Amanda insisted quietly. "Try. Please. In this case, the _first_ time is the charm."

  
It was, as Sarah had anticipated, almost impossible to get him talking.

Watching him walk toward her from across the court where he had gone to use his communicator, she marveled that he was walking at all. He had always moved so quickly, and with such energy. Pace, turn, gesture, even his smile--always quick. Now it was as though there were no energy in him. And his eyes....

"Did you get any sleep?" Compassion. The only emotion she had seen him show since he had beamed down was compassion for her and Amanda. But even that barely showed in his voice.

"A little." They held each other silently, her head on his shoulder. There was no tension in him. His body was almost as limp as it had been when she touched his shoulder to awaken him. "Do you have to go back now?"

"We left it that I'll get back to them when I'm ready." He stroked her hair lightly. "Saavik says they got a subspace message off to Sarek on Altair. They told him I'm here with you." Even his speech was half a beat slower than she remembered it.

"Jim, sit down." She drew him to a high-backed bench facing the fountain in the center of the courtyard. Get him talking, Amanda had said. One subject was a good as another, and this was one that she had once wanted to know more about--once, in another life now ended. "Tell me about Saavik."

He hesitated. Everything he said was half a beat behind. "She's good." He sat forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely between them. "In about five years, she'll be great. Why do you ask?" Listless. Dry.

"I'm--I was jealous of her."

That startled him. "Oh, Sarah! He was just--"

"Oh, not for me. His daughter was growing up here, light years away, but the best of him was going to Saavik. Every tape this past year had something about her. There was one--" _The last one. The last one ever._ But she put that thought out of her mind. "Some test that she thought she didn't do well on?"

" _Kobayashi Maru_ ," Jim said softly, looking down at his clasped hands. "It's a no-win scenario. A sim. Everybody ends up...." Inexplicably, he stopped. It was as if the word _up_ were the last word in the sentence.

"That might have been it." She went on, not knowing where. Perhaps nowhere. "You were there, he said. You were the examiner?"

"Yes."

Something in the sound of that one word alerted her. She turned slightly to look at him, but his head was still bent, and she could not see his face.

His hands were locked together so tightly that the knuckles were white.

She kept her voice calm, knowing that if she moved too soon, she would lose him. "He said he waited to talk to you afterward. He thought you were pleased--"

"Don't."

It was barely a whisper.

She went to her knees beside him then, laying one of her hands on his, the other gently kneading his shoulder.

He had raised his eyes to hers, the tears standing in them, still unable to fall. "This doesn't make sense."

"Tell me."

"He was waiting when I came out. And I said 'Aren't you d-d--- Aren't you _dead_?" He closed his eyes, and the tears covered his cheeks in an instant. "And he sm...his eyes...."

"I know," she whispered, her arm around his shoulders now, her forehead against his cheek.

"And it was funny...because...because he was so...oh, God, Sarah--he was so _safe_." He broke then, reaching out, and she pulled herself up to the bench and held him close as he hid his face against her shoulder.

And she wept yet another time. But not, this time, for herself.

  
"I asked him if he was waiting to find out how they did." His voice shook now, and there was nothing in his eyes but pain. The tears still wet his cheeks as he rested his head against her arm, now lying along the high back of the bench. "Or if he was just loitering. And he--he teased me right back. He said...." He turned his head a little, looking at her. Lifting his hand, he touched her cheek lightly. "One guess."

She hesitated only momentarily, and then whispered, "'Vulcans do not loiter.'"

"'Are not renowned,'" he quoted softly, "'for their ability to.'"

"Of course." Their gaze held, and a ghost of a smile passed between them.

Then he dropped his hand and let his head fall back to rest on her arm once more. His face was gray now, and still the tears came. But the hand did not fall to his side. Instead, he clenched his fist, and began to beat rhythmically against his leg. "Oh, Sarah, what wouldn't I _give_. What wouldn't I _give_." And still the tears came.

  
Walking together, they paused on the steps near T'Sal, looking down at the dawn and up at the dawn, now barely yellow in the violet sky.

"What did you use?" she asked finally.

"A photon tube. It's standard." The tears had stopped, but there was still no color in his face.

"How long will it last...in space?"

He turned a little to look at her. "Sarah--"

"I'm not being morbid, Jim. I don't think he told his parents, but I know that's what he wanted." Then she realized that he had not been answering her question.

"It's not in space. I--it soft-landed on the planet."

"What planet?" And when he told her, she could not answer at first. "My God," she whispered finally, staring at him. "Don't do this to yourself. You can't believe--"

"No. But if you could have seen it forming...." His breathing was too shallow, but he did not look irrational. He looked as though he were going to be sick. "When I gave the eulogy, I said he gave his life to protect it. That was bullshit." He swayed a little.

"Sit down. No--Jim, sit _down_." He sat on the step, arms crossed on his knees, forehead resting against them. He was sweating. Knowing that she must, she forced herself to go on. "You would have done the same for him--"

"I didn't. He did."

In a voice like muted wind chimes, T'Sal began to sing.

Sitting between Sarah and the singer, he raised his head slowly and looked at T'Sal. "What's doing that?" he asked, dazed. "There's no wind."

"She's singing to you," Sarah answered faintly.

"She?"

"She's a pet." Fighting a wave of hysteria, Sarah laid her hand on his shoulder. "She was Spock's. Now she's T'Ara's."

He did not answer, but simply continued to stare, his face still turned away. Finally he said softly, "That's why he smiled. On Talos IV."

The allusion called up a rush of Spock's memories, buried until now in her unconscious mind. "You weren't with him on Talos IV."

"I saw it on the screen." He still sounded dazed, but he was no longer whispering. "We were judge and jury--Deadman, Noman, and James T. Kirk." She drew in her breath, and he laid his hand over hers on his shoulder. Cool, but not cold. "I'm all right, Sarah. I'm just not censoring. Do you mind?" She shook her head, but could not answer aloud. He turned his head to look at her. " _You're_ not all right."

"There was a man." Finally she managed to find her voice. This had never happened before, and she wondered if she were losing her mind. "Latin type. Deep voice. I can _see_ him. I can hear his voice. But Spock's memory says...said...that he wasn't there." _Is this what it feels like to lose your mind?_

"It was an illusion," he said quietly, turning to face her. "Spock's idea of busywork ..." His voice died away. Finally he whispered, "Do you have all of his memories?" Not censoring. It sounded like an accusation.

Part of her soul seemed to split open, and what came flowing out tasted like poison.

"Want to trade, Jim?" Her voice rose, thin and cracking, and she tried to control the rising and the thinness of it. "I'll trade you. I'll trade you every one of his memories for one year of his everydays. Six months? One month? No deal? Because you _can't_ , damn you!" She struck both fists against his shoulders. "I want them _back_ , and you _can't_! They'll always be _yours_!" She was wailing. He took hold of her upper arms, but did not restrain her. "Damn you! Damn you!" She struck his shoulders as hard as she could, and still he was not restraining her. He was holding her together, keeping her from tearing into too many tiny, jagged pieces to ever fit together again. "Damn you--don't be _good_ to me!" She twisted her shoulders and wrenched away from him, hugging her knees and hiding her face against them, her fists still clenched. Strange, whimpering sounds that she did not recognize as her own voice seemed to be coming from somewhere. Still facing her, he took her right hand in his left and used his other hand to pry her fist open, then grasped her hand with his. He did not have to pry open her other hand. She clung to his hands as she had once clung to Spock's--squatting then, giving birth on Tara. _Now I'm giving death,_ she thought, and as she began to sob at last, she felt him lay his cheek against her hair. The sobbing went on and on, destroying her and healing her, and still his hands held hers. She thought that she ought to warn him that it would never stop, that no matter how much she cried away, there would always be more and it would never stop. But she could not speak, could only go on crying--until slowly, slowly the sobs died away. And still his hands held hers, more gently now, as hers held his.

"Thank you for not saying 'I'm sorry,'" she whispered, and his hands tightened on hers once more.

"I'm not," he said.

"That's all that saves it," she said, and realized that T'Sal was still singing softly to them both.

  
"Can I tell you a story?" she asked.

Yellow dawn had turned to gold, and the violet was almost gone. He had half turned to face T'Sal again, and she had laid her right arm across his shoulders and rested her forehead against it. His left hand still held hers.

He nodded.

"After Jill was born, I slept for a while. When I woke up, it was dark. The stars were out. It was always clear at night." She stopped and waited for her voice to steady. "He was standing at the window, holding her against his shoulder. She was asleep. He was looking up at the...." She could not go on.

After a while, he said, "I can't see it. How did he look?"

"Far away." When it was clear that he was not going to answer, she asked, "How did he look when he smiled at the singing?"

He sighed deeply, and for the first time since he had wept in her arms, his shoulders relaxed.

"Young," he said.

  


"Kirk to _Enterprise_.... Beam me up on my command." He closed the communicator and turned to face her. It was a quick turn, almost as soon as she expected it. And when he hugged her, he held her close. "Promise me something?"

"What?"

"Don't ever tell Jill anything about the _Kobayashi Maru_ test. Just in case." It was the first time he had mentioned Jill since his arrival.

"What do you mean, 'just in case'? I think she keeps her application for the Academy under her pillow."

He pulled away a little, and she raised her face from his shoulder.

"You've never minded seeing her in my world?" he asked.

"As long as it's _her_ world." Then, seeing that he was touched by her words: "What's all this about his-and-hers worlds? I never heard you talk like this before."

"It's--a long story, and I only knew the beginning of it before. I'll tell you about it next time." Quick tears came to his eyes again, and she knew he was thinking that, until now, he and Spock had always come here together. That kind of "next time" was but one of the times that would never come again.

He looked down, and when the tears slipped silently from beneath his lashes, she wiped them away with her fingers as though they were Jill's.

  
When he had gone, she went to wake her children, vowing to share her memories and their father's with the one who had so few of her own, and the other who would now have none.

She had left her vidpage in her room. Passing her door now, she saw a pulsing red glow spread across the walls. She had deactivated the sound alarm. But the _urgent_ light was flashing, and she immediately illuminated the tiny output screen. Other than her medservice network, only her daughters and Spock's parents had access to this readpad. And she had informed the network that she was unavailable until further notice.

The message was from Sarek's access code--by subspace relay via Starfleet.

She stood immobile, wondering which of the two of them had gone mad.

 _KEEP KIRK ON VULCAN._ The letters seemed to burn across the vid. _SPOCK'S LIFE DEPENDS ON IT._


	10. Music I Heard

### Music I Heard

> _"Music I heard with you was more than music..."_
> 
> \--Conrad Aiken 

  
While waiting for Jim Kirk to bring Spock back from Genesis, Sarah Halsted lost a patient. In the past few days, death had become the bondmate of her spirit and rebirth its talisman. But she saw no good omen in the fact that the tragic accident that ended her patient's life also precipitated the beginning of another. 

Always before, she had gone to T'Loreth's office at the end of the day to unwind and catch up on her professional reading. But on the day of Kathleen Greenwood's death, she was summoned to her own office at sunset to take a vidphone call from Amanda. 

"What is it?" Sarah demanded. How many balls could she juggle at the same time? Rejecting the image, she thrust her hands into the pockets of her medical tunic. "Is T'Ara worse?" 

"No." On the small screen, Amanda looked ill, and old. After these past few days, no wonder. "My dear, you have to stop worrying about her like this. Even Vulcan children get the flu." 

"She's never sick, and it's not the flu." 

"Call it what you will. Her immune system is probably in shreds, but you know this isn't a serious illness for a Vulcan child. Would you be so worried about her if you weren't under so much stress yourself?" Sarah sighed, shook her head, and slid into T'Loreth's desk chair, relaxing for the first time in hours. "You look exhausted," Amanda continued, frowning. "I wish you hadn't worked today. We've heard--" 

"Kathleen Greenwood died about half an hour ago." Her elbow on the arm of the chair, Sarah shaded her eyes with one hand. 

"Oh, Sarah!" Amanda was familiar with the name, and aware that Kathleen was barely thirty. "What happened to her?" 

"Aircar accident. She was at term, and the baby was born on the way to the hospital. But we couldn't save Kathleen." A statistic, Sarah thought, running her fingers across her forehead. Baby doing fine, period. "Before she died, I promised her I'd stay until I'm sure the baby's all right." 

"Stay?" Amanda repeated, startled. "You mean...tonight?" 

"I promised, Amanda. The poor little thing seems fine, but there was so much trauma, and she is a hybrid. I have to stay until I'm sure there aren't any complications." 

"How long?" 

"In ten to twelve hours we'll know one way or the other. I'll probably be here most of the night." 

There was a long moment of silence. Odd. Amanda was usually so quick and articulate. 

"Yes," she said finally. "I think you should do that." Another pause. Then: "I hope you'll forgive me tomorrow for not...insisting." 

"I can rest here," Sarah assured her. "As long as T'Ara's all right, I'm needed here more than I am there." 

Amanda appeared to be weighing alternatives, her eyes slightly narrowed. "I think that's probably true," she said finally. 

"Is T'Ara's temp still spiking?" 

"No. She's all washed out, but she tranced just before--before I called you." Again the preoccupied stare. Then Amanda sighed. Whatever conflict she had had, it was over now. The decision was made. "I won't leave her, Sarah." It sounded like a vow. 

"I know that!" No one would leave a Vulcan child in a healing trance for more than a few minutes. Amanda must be breaking, Sarah thought. Too much stress. Too much heartache. 

And then Amanda smiled. 

Startled by the change, Sarah tensed again. "Have you heard from Jim?" 

"No. I haven't." It would be days before Sarah remembered Amanda's faint stress on the word _I_. "You're right. You're better off where you are than...than here. Good night, my dear. Try to rest as much as you can. You'll--we all need to do that." And the screen went dark. 

  
T'Loreth worked at her desk, available for conversation should she be needed. Sarah stood at the window, sipping tea that smelled of Vulcan spices and warming her hands on the cup. Outside, the setting sun hung smouldering in an ochre sky tinged with peach. Inside, the air felt chilled. Here on one of the hottest planets in the Federation, Sarah felt as though she could never get warm again. 

Another day passing. Now another night, and then another day. Sarek had said it would be at least three more days until they heard from Jim, if they heard from him at all. _How am I supposed to feel?_ she thought, panicking. _I don't know how I'm supposed to feel._ Then the panic subsided, leaving only the pain. 

The news of Sarek's plan for Spock's refusion had truncated the healing of her soul, and even the grief. Yet she felt no hope. Events, faces, voices swirled around her, not touching her. Surreal. Until Kathleen Greenwood died. That was real enough. 

She leaned her forehead against the window, closing her eyes. A moment later she felt T'Loreth's familiar presence at her side and an unfamiliar touch on her arm. It was the first time in all their years together than T'Loreth had touched her. 

"Are you well?" 

"Don't make me cry," Sarah whispered. She pressed T'Loreth's hand against her arm for a moment and then released it, knowing that weeping humans were more disturbing to her Vulcan colleagues than they liked to admit. "I don't want to offend you." 

T'Loreth shook her head. "I would not be offended, Sarah. But you must go home. You should not be here now." 

"I can't stay home, just waiting for news. And I promised Kathleen. Just give me a moment. Please?" 

"As you wish." T'Loreth moved back toward her desk. Sarah gazed out at ShiKahr until the tears were gone, and then she turned. 

As she did so, a gigantic shadow sped across the window. 

Drawing in her breath, she checked her movement. What in the universe...? There had been heat lightning every night for weeks, but there were no clouds in the sky now, and no bird on the planet was a tenth that size. 

"Did you see that?" she whispered, laying her hand against the window. Nothing. The shadow was gone. 

Shadow of death. Everywhere. 

_God_ , she thought. _I must be losing my mind._

"What did you see?" T'Loreth asked. 

"I don't know." Sarah turned to face her. "Nothing, I guess. A shadow. I don't know." 

As she moved away from the window, floodlights began to sweep the darkening sky. 

  
"Nurse Keller has a rocking chair in Neonatal," T'Loreth had said. She put the same emphasis on both words, as though they were adjective and noun rather than one concept. But her eyes were smiling. The rocking chair would never have occurred to her, which was precisely why Sarah was on her staff. 

"Why do you want me here?" Sarah had asked her all those years ago, when T'Loreth had invited her to become a permanent member of the Hybrid Obstetrics staff. And T'Loreth had answered, "I need you here." After many years of working with human mothers and their hybrid newborns, T'Loreth still did not consider herself the resident expert on humanity. "We have much to teach you, and you have much to teach us," she had said. Rocking chairs were not in the curriculum, but using one as a monitoring station would be a good deal more restful than spending the night watching Kathleen's infant daughter being crooned to and rocked by a simulator. 

The sun had almost disappeared by the time Sarah reached the anti-grav tube that ran up and down the outside of the hospital building, its transparent aluminum rear wall giving the floater a magnificent view of the city. She paused for a moment, looking across the Science Academy complex toward home. Standing many stories above ground level, she could see the hills that circled the city rising dusky blue against a sky now pale orange, the lights from the houses winking on like Terran fireflies against the blue. Beyond the hills, a narrow strip of yellow-green parkland circled the city, a force field at its inner edge calibrated to permit humanoid life to pass through it freely but allowing no sub-humanoid life forms larger than a Terran rabbit to approach the city. _Beautiful and efficient,_ she thought, _as always._ But she had a promise to keep. Looking down, she put out her foot to step into the grav tube, and froze. 

In fantasy, she plummeted down the tube in free-fall while a voice inside her head chattered, _He's dead dead dead or a vegetable or scorched inside like Kathleen outside or Sarek will claim his soul for logic and Jim will claim his heart for Starfleet and the two of us will be right back where we BEGAN._

Trembling and sweating, she clung to the edge of the tube opening, her gaze fixed on the dusky-soft hills with their pinpoint lights now blurred and dancing. If she'd held together when Spock died, she could hold together through anything. But in fantasy's eye, juggler's balls went tumbling down the grav tube after the juggler, ready to bury her at the bottom. 

Two Vulcans approached along the hallway, deep in conversation. As they neared, their conversation stopped, and they both turned toward her. Closing her eyes for an instant, she stepped into the tube and floated downward, watching the hills rise to enfold her like the petals of a velvet-blue flower. The sweat dried on her skin, and by the time she floated to the exit at the second floor, she was chilled to the bone once more. 

But when she reached Neonatal, she was walking steadily and almost calm. Amanda had been right, as usual. T'Loreth had been right, as usual. She should not be here now. But she had a promise to keep. When that was done, she could go home and fall apart at leisure. With luck, she might even sleep. 

  
Fireballs rose from the blue hills and spun in a circle, their juggler invisible, their light too bright to bear. Then they merged into one sphere spinning on its axis, and Jim's voice was saying, _Soft-landed on Genesis.... If you could have seen it forming...._

Sarah jerked awake and glanced at the clock. It would be dawn soon. She began to rock again--a slight and gentle motion so as not to wake the infant who slept in her arms. Funny how newborns all looked like they were trying to wring their hands, but were unable to grasp and hold--hands back-to-back under the chin, clutching nothing. Face so small, wrinkled still, ancient-looking and yet new as a bud, green as a pickle. Miniature pointed ears. At three months, Shevek weighed twice as much as this child, was half again as long yet only a little broader. But this one was just as solid, and her breathing was normal. 

Tabula rasa. 

Spock too, perhaps. If Sarek's plan worked. 

And what about McCoy? If you back up your data by saving it over another file.... Leaning her head against the back of the rocker, Sarah cleared her mind. Blank. That was best. No precedent, Sarek had said, except in ancient legend. No preconceived ideas. Blank mind, Sarah. 

Mindless. Spock could be mindless. 

Blank. No precedent. Keep the mind blank. 

Next door in the neonatal nursery, Zoe and her staff were going about their rounds, their voices muted under low lights. This baby might be better off in a simulator. At least there she would have a tireless computer to soothe her vocally. Smiling a little, Sarah cuddled the baby closer and began to sing softly. 

_'Tis a gift to be simple, 'tis a gift to be free,_

_'Tis a gift to come down where we ought to be...._ Her voice sounded thin, like a child's. 

_And when we are in that place just right,_

_We will be in the garden of love and delight._ _No,_ she thought. _Don't think about that now._

Too late for tears, and too soon for hope. _I don't know how I'm supposed to feel._

"You look like you could use a break," said a voice from the doorway. 

Sarah opened her eyes to see Zoe leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, face in shadow. 

"I wasn't asleep." 

"Tell me about it," Zoe said drily. "Look, she's doing better than you are. Let me put her in a sim for a while, and you go lie down." 

"Thanks. I'm fine." Sarah tried for a smile, and made it. 

Zoe shrugged. "You feel like talking shop?" When Sarah nodded: "I think there's something wrong with Junior." 

Sarah narrowed her eyes, trying to see Zoe's face. If there were really anything wrong with Shevek, his one-woman fan club would not have announced it with suppressed laughter in her voice. 

"Okay, I'll bite. What's wrong with Junior?" 

"That kid," said Zoe with the air of making a pronouncement, "is not your normal Vulcan baby. I mean, he looks Vulcan, and he's doing things a human his age couldn't ever do. But this kid is happy. You know what pre-controls are like. Like, autistic." 

"He has some 'interesting' recessive genes." 

"'Indeed,'" Zoe said primly. "Five'll get you ten Grampa's gonna shit a brick if things keep going the way they're going." 

Sarah laughed, and the infant in her arms stirred, yawned, and sneezed. 

"She could be getting hungry. What time is it?" Sarah asked. 

"Time for you to go home, and for this one to have breakfast." Zoe moved into the anteroom, the light from the nursery gleaming on her russet hair. Standing in front of Sarah, she craned her head around so that her face was parallel with the baby's. "Doesn't she even have a name?" she asked sadly. 

"At her last checkup, Kathleen told me they had a list. They were going to decide when Simon got home. Gets home. Oh, _hell_ , Zoe--" She closed her eyes, but the tears came anyway. 

"So she needs a name." Moving to Sarah's side, Zoe put her arm around her shoulders and squeezed hard. "Hey, I got it. T'inkerbell." Sarah giggled, the tears still running down her cheeks. "Brilliant suggestion, and she laughs." Zoe rested her cheek against Sarah's hair and they were silent for a moment. 

In that moment, Dr. Kim Sung come to the anteroom door. As her eyes met Sarah's over Zoe's shoulder, Kim frowned a little, her obvious concern for Sarah diluted by her equally obvious bewilderment at seeing a side of Zoe Keller that she had never seen before. You see? Sarah thought, tears already drying on her cheeks. What have I been telling you? Kim was not a telepath, but the message was apparently clear from Sarah's expression. A smile crept into Kim's dark eyes, but her face froze as Zoe spoke again. 

"Don't tell Dragon Lady, though. Might crack her face if she--" Sarah stiffened. Zoe turned to look where Sarah was looking and then, taking her time, straightened up, raised her hand and waggled her fingers at Kim. "Hi, there." Kim's lips twitched, and Zoe went blithely on: "As I was saying--might crack her face if she smiled." 

"So you've told me several times." Kim moved forward into the room. "For the record, who's Dragon Lady?" 

"Western cultural archetype," said Sarah. At the same time, Zoe said, "Oh, just some pushy broad." 

"Some day--" Annoyance and amusement warring in her voice, Kim pointed an unsteady finger at Zoe while Sarah shook with silent laughter. "Some day, sweetheart, you are going to find yourself in such deep shit--" 

"Me? Nah." Moving toward the door into the nursery, Zoe made an exaggerated swing to give Kim a wide berth. Then she glanced back over her shoulder, still grinning. "Say goodnight, Sarah." 

"Goodnight, Sarah," said Sarah. "Hey, before you go--where'd you stash Junior overnight?" 

"Right in here." Now in the doorway, Zoe jerked her head toward the nursery. "All the other daycares went home after the evening shift, and he was lonesome." And she was gone. 

"That," said Kim, looking after Zoe, "I could do without." 

"No, you couldn't." 

"Funny how folks around here keep repeating themselves." Kim put her hands on her hips. "Are you out of your mind?" 

"Fine way to talk to your department head." 

"When was the last time you slept? I mean all night long." 

"Last night. I mean, the night before last. Night before this. Whatever." In memory, she saw her unfriendly bed, the pillow sweat-stained, the covers tangled. 

"Yesterday morning, you said you'd hardly slept." Sarah could not summon the energy to answer. "Sarah, you cannot go without sleep like this. I don't care if your grandmother was an ox. You are three-quarters human." 

"In medical school, I could go for three days without sleep." 

"That was twenty years ago. I think it's about time you faced reality. You can't expect--" 

"Kim, one thing this isn't is reality." 

Their gaze held, and then Kim asked, "How soon do you find out about Spock?" 

"Another couple days, Sarek thinks. They might get here in another couple days. Then...." She could not go on. 

"Good God." Kim took the baby from Sarah's unresisting arms. "Go home, boss. Now. Take a red pill, okay? Take three." 

"All right." Sarah rose, and as she did so, she saw at the edge of her vision two pairs of dark Vulcan eyes. 

Like the nursery itself, the anteroom windowed on the hall. At the window stood a Vulcan couple whom she recognized. Of course. If Kathleen were alive, she and her baby would be going home this morning. The last time, seven years ago, Simon's Vulcan grandparents had come to take Kathleen and her first baby home. Now they had come to take this one home. Baby doing fine, period. Totally logical. 

"Give me the baby," she said. And when Kim wordlessly complied, she went though the doorway into the hall. 

"Live long and prosper, Sivor--T'Resh." They were of a height--smooth dark hair with no gray in it, thin unsmiling faces. In their nineties, probably. Sivor wore a black jumpsuit, elegantly trimmed in blue. T'Resh wore a robe of deep reddish brown that triggered in Sarah an anxiety that she was momentarily unable to define. She knew only that she did not want to turn this vulnerable newborn over to the silent Vulcan in his elegant black suit, or to the figure beside him in...Starfleet red? Shivering a little, she told herself that Kim was right: if she didn't get some rest soon, she wouldn't last another day, let alone two. Or three. Or.... 

Between the two adult Vulcans stood Kathleen Greenwood's son, Seth. From the nursery anteroom, he had not been visible above the bottom of the observation window. Dark little boy, nothing of his mother in him. The Vulcan genetic dominance was virtually unrelenting, even outnumbered three to one. Seth's eyes were solemn, yet alert and interested. 

"Is this child Simon's daughter?" T'Resh asked. 

"Yes." With an effort, Sarah withdrew her gaze from the little boy's. "You'll have to check her out of the hospital. The pediatrician will give you instruction, but she's fine. Do you understand--" Her arms tightened around the baby. "She has to be held," she went on, her voice trembling as she realized that this baby was not only Spock to her, but herself as well. "She's _human_. You have to hold her sometimes." 

"I can hold her," said Seth. 

Sarah turned her unbelieving gaze to the two adults, her Terran conditioning expecting "Not now." Or "You're too little." Or "Maybe later, if you're a good boy." She heard nothing. 

Totally logical. Baby needs to be held, you hold her. And without a word spoken among the three of them. 

She knelt in front of the child, wordlessly showing him how to support the baby's head. At seven, he was well able to carry the infant's weight, and like most Vulcans, he absorbed kinesthetic images as a plant absorbs water, fascinated but still unsmiling. It was only when Sarah touched one of the baby's tiny wrinkled hands and whispered, "Goodbye, Tinkerbell" that she finally saw an afterimage of his mother's smile. 

  
In the nursery, Shevek was up on his hands and knees, rocking. Jill had not pulled herself up like that until she was seven months old. T'Ara had neither rocked nor crawled; she had simply stood up and walked at the age of eight point three five months, Standard. 

Feeling less tired than she had all night, Sarah dropped to her knees at the head of the crib, so that she could grin at her son at his eye level though the transparent aluminum enclosure. Rocking energetically, Shevek grinned back and made a noise that sounded like "Hi!" Coming from a child who looked completely Vulcan, the effect was demoralizing. Sarah laughed again, and her son rocked all the harder, his black eyes sparkling, genetic dominance relenting without ceremony. His pigmentation was almost human, but his hair was a smooth cap that glinted faintly in the pre-dawn light from the window. His eyebrows followed the angle of his pointed ears. The smooth alien effect was totally negated by the state of his attire. 

"Shevek of Vulcan," his mother informed him, "your diaper is falling off." 

"Mup," said Shevek, rocking and grinning. 

  
Dawn was breaking as they walked toward home. Shevek, his stomach full and his diaper changed, slept in a canvas carrier on his mother's back, his head on her shoulder. His mother savored his solid warmth against her back. 

Halfway up the hill to the house, she paused to rest on the low wall that defined the Vulcan garden that rainbowed up the rest of the hill. The house looked deserted in the yellow light, and she turned her head to look back at the dawn over the city. Lovely. Heat lightning most of the night, but now this, as though the lightning had melted and thinned to a desert-gold wash. Sitting on the wall, she closed her eyes and listened to a bird announcing a new day. 

All the shadows were gone. The surreal sensation that had imprisoned her spirit had lifted sometime in the night. Again her face was wet with tears, but there was no pain in her now. 

"He's dead, Shev," she whispered. "Your father is dead, and Sarek is mad, and Jim must be both by now. Why can't I believe any of it?" 

Her son had no answer, and gave her none. 

  
After putting the sleeping baby in his own bed, she went to T'Ara's room. The door was open, as though Amanda were listening for a familiar step. 

But Amanda was asleep, stretched out on top of the covers next to the child, her hand resting on T'Ara's arm to detect the first sign that the trance was thinning. In repose, the faces of the two sleepers showed none of the stress and grief of the last nightmarish week. Amanda looked years younger than she had on the phone screen the evening before, and her color was better. T'Ara, who had grown several inches in the last year, had nevertheless not yet begun to mature. The resemblance to pictures of her father at the same age was still uncanny--the long, narrow face framed in dark hair, the soft child's mouth, lips now slightly parted. 

_Rest well, little one._ Resisting the impulse to touch T'Ara's cheek lest she disturb the trance, Sarah tiptoed out, checked Shevek again, and went to her own room, a mist of fatigue rising around her. She knew that she would sleep long, for her grandmother's people had slept longer and more deeply than Earth humans did. But there was time. Two or three days before they could expect to hear anything. 

_But I'll only sleep for one_ , she thought, stripping off her clothes and crawling into bed, pulling the sheet up to her neck. _Forgive me, my love. I'll have my clothes picked up before you...._

Blackness. 

After what felt like a very long time, she dreamed again. 

Amanda stood by the bed, looking down at the sleeping Sarah. The strain was back in her face, and her healthy color was gone. She was speaking to someone who stood in the doorway, hesitating but determined. 

Jim. 

In the dream, Sarah saw his expression clearly. He had been in a fight, and his face was bruised and cut. Now he approached the bed where the dreaming Sarah lay, and he and Amanda stood beside it together, whispering. Arguing in whispers. Dreaming, Sarah saw Amanda lay her hand on his arm, pleading. 

_It's all right._

Sarah tried to speak, disturbed by the agitation in Jim's stance, his expression, his voice. 

_I'm awake._

And she thought that she was awake, that she had spoken aloud, that they must have heard her. But they went on whispering, both looking at her where she lay, still dreaming. Jim said something quite clearly, and she understood the words. 

_What do you mean?_ she asked. 

Amanda drew him away, toward the door. Just as they reached it, Jim looked back over his shoulder. 

_Don't go!_ she called. _Tell me what you meant by...._

Blackness again. 

  
On the morning after Spock's fal-tor-pan, Admiral James T. Kirk had had one of the most difficult conversations of his life, and that across nearly sixteen light years of space. If it had been anyone but Morrow, it might have been easier. But Starfleet's current commander had never been one of the admiral's favorite people. 

"If there had been any other way, sir," he told the subspace screen, "I wouldn't have. The _Enterprise_ was the only alternative open to me." _Thanks to you._

"You could have listened to me, Jim." The dark eyes were reproving, the regret in the voice genuine. Yet Kirk had to set his teeth to keep from shouting. Spock was alive and McCoy saved from insanity, and this man-- "Now you're finished," Morrow went on, "and the best of your crew right along with you. I'm going to have to send somebody after you." 

"Sir, I'd like to suggest an alternative." 

"Such as?" 

"We'd like to come home under our own power." Morrow stared, shaking his head. "In the Klingon ship," Kirk finished. 

"Is it spaceworthy?" 

"Not really, sir. We just about made it here. But Scotty estimates that with Starfleet's help, we could have her refitted in about three months. How much sooner than that can you spare someone to come and get us?" 

The conversation balked, twisted, backtracked on itself. Kirk had often felt that he and Morrow spoke different languages with the U.T. out of commission. He began to sweat, trying to keep his voice calm and even. If he blew this one, the four who had risked their lives and their careers for Spock and McCoy would be hauled back to Earth like criminals, and he could not risk that even for the exquisite pleasure of telling Commander, Starfleet, to go screw himself. 

Eventually, Morrow agreed that the six of them would be housed in crew quarters on Starbase Vulcan for three months, and that they could requisition supplies and materials at the discretion of the base commander. The only conditions were that they were not to leave ShiKahr and that they were not to be seen in Starfleet uniforms under any circumstances. Kirk had the impression that Morrow was procrastinating, that somewhere around the middle of the conversation he had decided that keeping the whole situation on hold for a while might be For the Good of the Service. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered right now except that Spock was alive and the crew still free. 

"What about Lieutenant Saavik?" Morrow asked, and something inside Kirk snapped, releasing his pent-up outrage. 

"Saavik hasn't been accused of anything!" 

"Jim," said the voice of sweet reason, "get hold of yourself. I'm not suggesting that she has been. I meant--what about her request for transfer to Starbase Vulcan?" Kirk stared. "It came in by subspace about an hour ago, and I've asked to be informed immediately about any new information related to Genesis. Didn't you know?" 

An hour ago? It was barely two hours since the fal-tor-pan had ended. 

"No," he said. "I didn't know." But he thought he knew why. 

  
A few months after V'ger, on a deep-space mission when there was nothing much to do off duty except talk, he and Spock had done an all-nighter in the captain's quarters on the subject of Vulcan culture, philosophy, and biology, and the intersections thereof. He had learned a great deal, some of it more than he really wanted to know. But it was worth the decision to stay sober on Altair water to hear Spock expounding at length on the manners and mores of his dominant racial heritage with his feet propped up on a chair and his hands clasped, relaxed, in his lap. 

Along about 0430, Spock had dropped the one bombshell that Kirk had not been able to get his mind around. 

"You mean this kid just walks up to a--er--lady of his acquaintance and says, 'Now's the Time'?" 

"In a manner of speaking." Spock repressed a sigh. "Previous acquaintance is not necessary, however." 

"He just walks up to a stranger and says--" 

"A prostitute," Spock said gently, "is invariably a stranger, is she not?" 

"There are times," said his captain, grinning as he got up to stretch and pour himself another Altair water, "that I think I liked you better before V'ger." Spock's raised eyebrow was accompanied by a slight shrug. "Besides, isn't that a false analogy?" 

"Not entirely. First Time is an adolescent phenomenon, just as certain rites of initiation--" 

"I get the connection," Kirk said drily, resuming his seat and leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "You said it can be as lethal as the real thing if the fever isn't controlled." Spock nodded. "Yet the l'nara treats the condition telepathically with no physical contact at all?" He imitated the hand position of the Vulcan mind meld. 

"Very minimal." Spock raised his right hand, the first two fingers extended--but upwards, not at an angle as Kirk had seen the gesture done before. Then he raised his left in the same way, and brought the two together, fingertips barely in contact. Watching, Kirk was reminded of a childhood game: _This is the church/ And this is the steeple...._ "The afflicted male is feverish, confused, and frightened, but not sexually aroused to any great degree. Sustained physical contact could...complicate the situation." 

Kirk sighed. "Is there a Vulcan synonym for 'emotional support'?" 

"We are not discussing a human male, Jim. The l'nara's function is to assist a _Vulcan_ in raising to the conscious level the information that was telepathically implanted in his unconscious mind at the time of the bonding." Spock folded his hands in his lap again. 

"Hand-holding, Vulcan style." 

"As I said, that is not the Vulcan way. There is a very high probability that actual hand-holding would trigger the plak tow." 

Kirk nodded, resisting the impulse to ask, _But what if he's half human and scared half to death?_ "So she fills him in telepathically on what's really happening, and that calms him down. Cold shower effect?" 

Spock sighed. "Indeed." 

"Cures the fever--for the time being." Spock nodded. "But this ritual only works for First Time." Another nod. "Was your l'nara a stranger or someone you knew?" 

"Neither. I was isolated at the time, camping out alone on Vulcan's Forge." 

After a moment, Kirk asked, "How old were you?" 

"Seventeen point four six years Terran." 

_A year ago,_ Kirk thought, _he would have said 'in your years.'_ "How did you survive?" 

"The necessary information was within, and had been since my bonding with T'Pring. Learned disciplines enabled me to access it--eventually--without assistance. It was an interesting experience." 

_Good God_. "And if you hadn't been able to access it?" 

"I would have died of the fever, and of the fear." Spock rose, stretched, and returned his cup to the recycler. "Captain, we are due on the bridge in precisely three point two seven hours. May I suggest that this...." He paused, and a smile crept into his eyes. "...most enjoyable interlude be terminated." He cocked his eyebrow. "For the good of the service?" Kirk nodded, his grin surfacing. "Good night, Jim. It is a rare--" He checked himself, and then went on, "I've never done this before. Thank you for listening." 

"Neither have I, Spock." _Not stone sober,_ he thought. _And not like this._ "Thank you for sharing." 

  
Kirk met Saavik by chance, in one of the anti-grav tubes in Con Tower, the main operations building at Starbase Vulcan. He had spent most of that first morning slogging through hostile red tape, which turned out to be much more aggravating than the friendly kind he was used to. Even with Morrow's sanction, he was persona non grata everywhere he turned; it was as though his rescue of Spock were the moral equivalent of mutiny and treason combined. The bizarre irrationality of it infuriated him, and he had forced himself to smile, to be congenial, even obsequious. And when he found himself about to gag on sugar and bile, he called to mind the memory of Uhura's triumphant "This isn't reality. This is fantasy!" And of Scotty and Sulu and Chekov, pledging their lives and their loyalty for the thousandth time on the newly re-lit bridge of the _Enterprise_. And when even those memories threatened to elude him, he called up one that he hoped he could someday forget: Bones's ghastly face as he pleaded, _Take me home_. Now he would take them all home. But not as prisoners. They would go as free beings, in their own ship, and if Jim Kirk had to eat shit to arrange it, he would eat it with a smile or die trying.  
 

By the time he spied a familiar mane of glossy dark hair floating below him in the grav tube, he was in a mood to drink himself into oblivion even though it was barely 1030 hours. But then he remembered the transfer request that Morrow had mentioned, and his mind sped off on another path. 

Until her transfer request was approved, Saavik was still officially assigned to the nonexistent _Enterprise_ , with temporary duty on the equally nonexistent _Grissom_. And officially, he was still in command of the _Enterprise_. Morrow had used this technicality to justify letting Kirk and his crew remain on Vulcan on "special assignment." As Saavik's commanding officer, Kirk was responsible for her safety and well-being, and he was certain that her immediate transfer request was not an indication of well-being. 

On Genesis, Spock had grown, mindless, from a small child to an adult male. L'nara? Kirk wondered. On the other hand.... 

On the other hand, if Saavik had been raped while on duty as a Starfleet officer, she was required by regulations to seek therapeutic counseling at the first possible opportunity. And her commanding officer was duty-bound to see that she got it, over her own objections if necessary. It was in The Book. 

The only saving grace of the situation was that one of the more fascinating bits of information that Spock had passed along during their all-nighter was that Vulcan females felt none of the shame and anguish regarding pon farr that was the universal torment of the males of their race. _We do not speak of it even among ourselves_ referred to males only; to a Vulcan female, pon farr was simply a part of life, to be dealt with as logically as the situation permitted. That revelation had finally explained T'Pau's heretofore inexplicable lack of reticence in discussing Spock's physical condition with two outworlders at a wedding. And it was that revelation that gave Saavik's nonexistent yet official commanding officer the hope that the necessary interview would not be as gut-wrenching as the two others he had had to initiate with violently traumatized human women in the course of his career as captain of the _Enterprise_. Those had been the only two occasions that he had wished that his first, best destiny had been to be a CPA. 

"Lieutenant, can I have a word with you, please?" 

At the sound of his voice, she turned, already halfway across the lobby of Con Tower. Only then did he realize that neither of them was in uniform. 

He had already cycled a lightweight Vulcan tunic and trousers, and Saavik's attire was somewhat similar--the regulation leisurewear of female Starfleet officers. He remembered the first time he had seen her dressed like this, in the turbolift on the _Enterprise_. Life had seemed so simple then. 

"Admiral." She appeared cool and composed rather than controlling, much as she had looked when she set the lift on hold to question him about the _Kobayashi Maru_ test: dark hair smoothly center-parted and falling to her waist in back, chin lifted but not set in frustration as it had been after the test. Her wide-set gray eyes met his steadily, showing no emotion other than faint curiosity. 

"Can I buy you a drink?" He gestured toward the small juice bar off the lobby, and Saavik nodded. 

They took their fruit juice to a small table, where Kirk explained his agreement with Morrow. Saavik was pleased and relieved, but when he had finished, silence spun out between them. 

"Lieutenant," he said quietly, "due to certain circumstances connected with your most recent mission, I am required by Starfleet regulation 68C to interview you at the first possible opportunity." 

To his relief, her expression did not change. "I have not been raped, sir." 

Kirk let out his breath, and thought he saw a glint of compassion in her eyes. "The circumstances--" 

"Understood, sir. Captain Spock experienced an event that his--our people refer to as First Time. He recovered without complications." Her expression did not change. 

"You were his l'nara?" 

A hairline crack appeared in her composure. Still ultra-professional, but there was a tremor in her voice now. "Affirmative, sir." 

"Saavik--I'm sorry. I didn't--I was led to believe that there was no taboo connected with--" 

"That is correct, Admiral. The function of the l'nara may be discussed." She drew herself up, hands clasped in her lap. It was a textbook rendition of Vulcan control. _Open the doors/ And out come the people._

Not rape, then. Something else. "How can I help?" 

"You can't, sir." She looked down then, at her clasped hands. "What I did--it was not the Vulcan way. No true l'nara would risk what I risked. When he remembers...." She shook her head, wordless, humiliated. Like Spock so long ago, Kirk thought. _"It's about...biology."_ So who said the women weren't affected? 

"He's only half Vulcan, Saavik. Even he knows that now." 

"His suffering was not _half_ Vulcan. I was well taught, but when I was tested, I failed. Again. I could have driven him mad." She looked up then, and once again he followed his instincts rather than what his head was telling him. 

"And hotshots never fail tests?" 

Again surprised, he watched a weary smile creep into her eyes. "Not if they can rewrite them." And this, he thought, was the same Saavik who had once thought humor a difficult concept? 

"Are we talking about a no-win scenario now?" he asked. 

"You don't believe in the no-win scenario." 

"He's alive, Saavik. Doesn't sound like no-win to me." 

"Yes. But when he remembers--" 

"That's why you've requested transfer?" 

"I have cancelled that request, sir. It was an impulse of the moment--what you humans call a cop-out. But in the short while it was pending, I was offered a temporary assignment." Now, at last, a sparkle of life in those unhappy gray eyes. "A geological survey team is leaving for Cauldron tomorrow." _Hellhole of the universe, Kirk thought._ Nobody but a dedicated geologist would want to go there, much less work there. But the experience would be invaluable for her. "It is a two-month assignment. I--with your permission, sir, I'd really like to go." Her voice had taken on the same slight huskiness that it had held when she demanded, in the Genesis cave, _Tell me what you did. I really want to know._

"Permission granted, Mister Saavik. We'll still be here when you get back." 

"Yes, sir." She was calm again. "Please tell Captain Spock that I wish him well." He nodded, and she left him alone at the table. 

Time to move on. 

He set the juice cup in its wet ring on the table, picked it up and set it down again. 

_Please tell Captain Spock...that our ship is dead._ _Please tell Doctor Marcus that our son is dead._

Feeling as though he carried a thousand tons, he straightened his shoulders but remained at the table, trying to decide what had to be done next. Too hot to go look at the ship now. That damn sun.... But in his mind, he saw another sun, rising in hell. 

Genesis. 

_Goodbye, David._

Dying star, streaking down the sky. 

_My God, Bones. What have I done?_

He closed his eyes and massaged the lids, deliberately calling up the picture of Spock walking toward him, whole and reborn. 

"At what cost?" Sarek had asked him. David would have died anyway, but.... 

But it was done. The price was paid. 

_"Your name is Jim."_

He took a deep breath and rose, smiling a little. Time to be moving on. And if all of his burdens went with him, they were, for the moment, under maximum security guard. 

  
Spock woke to a mind surrounded by invisible fog. Something deep inside him spoke in authoritative tones, telling him that it was illogical for a visually perceptible phenomenon to be conceptualized as invisible. But he could not envision it any more than he could penetrate it. 

"It's nothing but invisible water." The remembered voice of a beloved child spoke within him. But when he reached for the full memory, it faded to nothing. Behind the fog, his past lay inaccessible by any direct route. If he reached for answers, they eluded him in the fog. But if he remained calm and unquesting, answers bloomed out of nothing, vivid with the colors of time out of mind. 

Walking along a line of unfamiliar faces that morning, he had reached for their names and found nothing, although their expectations followed him like whispered pleas as he turned away. But a moment before, climbing steps with the ministers who had assisted in the refusion of his katra, an answer unsought had sped after him like a golden bird, making him turn. 

Jim. 

"You saved the ship. You saved us all. Don't you _remember_?" 

Expectations. No whispered plea, this. _What do you want of me?_ he had thought, knowing that he would do it even if it meant another death. And the answer had come without his reaching for it: "You at his side as though you had always been there." It was a woman's voice, but her face and her name were still lost in the fog. 

He opened his eyes, and saw that the Father whose name he could not remember was still sitting beside the bed. And again the answer sped toward him unsought. 

"Sarek," he said. He wanted to smile, but the authoritative one inside him said, _Never smile at the Father_. 

The Father smiled at him. 

"Spock," he said. He did not move, but remained sitting erect in the chair, his fingers steepled before him. "Did you sleep well?" 

"I have been awake for two point two seven minutes," Spock informed him. Sarek nodded, still smiling. Did the Father know everything? 

_How long have I been asleep?_ But even as he thought the question, he knew the answer. Behind Sarek's head, the window was dark. He had been asleep since morning, when the ministers had brought him here to the hospital. The Vulcan Science Academy hospital, they had told him. At the time, there had been somewhere else he wanted to go, and quite urgently, but he had not been able to remember where it was, so he kept silent, listening and watching until exhaustion overcame him. His body ached as though it had been pulled and stretched, and his throat hurt as though he had been screaming for hours. So when they said, "Sleep now, Spock," he had slept. And now it was night, and he still could not remember where it was that he so urgently wanted to go. But he must get there. Someone was expecting him there. 

"Your mother was here in my place for a time this afternoon," Sarek told him. "Sarah will come when she can." 

Sarah. 

He remembered kneeling beside her where she lay (Where? _Where?_ ) and laying his head on her breast. Expectations. Her expectations, unmet. And still she held him, stroking his hair, half asleep. "There is no time," he said to the Father, and sat up in bed. "It's all going to end in minutes. I must get there before--" Before what? He saw the startled look in Sarek's eyes, the dark brows rising. "I must go to Sarah before--" Only a memory. Whatever was going to happen, it had happened then, not now. But where was Sarah now? And the answer came. He saw the way clearly: up the hill to the wall at the foot of his mother's garden, then on past T'Sal and up to the house. He knew the way, and knowing it, he was filled with joy and longing. "I can find the way by myself," he assured the Father. 

"Indeed." Sarek had not moved except to lower his hands and clasp them before him. "Sarah is asleep. She needs rest, as you do. Is it necessary that you go to her now?" 

With a glance at the dark window, Spock controlled his disappointment. "No," he said. "But she will expect me when she wakes. And Jim expects--" He frowned. How could he do both? The question tore at him, and he looked at the Father, pleading. "How can I do both?" Only after he asked the question aloud did it occur to him that Sarek could not possibly know what he was talking about, since he did not know himself. 

"Spock--" Sarek hesitated, but Spock did not. 

"Speak, Father." 

Sarek's lips curved in a faint smile, but he thought for a moment before he answered. "You are not here to fulfill their expectations. They are. You are here to fulfill your own." 

"That is logical." Relieved and suddenly fatigued, Spock lay down again. "Did you teach me that, Father?" 

There was a pause, and he thought perhaps Sarek would not answer him. When the answer came, there was an echo of sadness in it. 

"No, my son. You taught me." 

  
He dozed and woke again to find Sarek meditating. There was no light in the room except the firepot glowing in one corner. Watching the shadows dance along the walls, he reached for the memories of another place, his place among the stars. But the fog around his mind would not permit access to those memories now. Feeling stronger, he sat up, expecting Sarek to rouse and look at him. But the Father was deep in meditation, and Sarah needed him. Logic suggested that his contemplated action was inappropriate, but the sweet ache in his soul said _Now_. 

Making no sound, he rose from the bed and went to the window. His room was on the first floor, and it was only a short drop to the ground. He stood looking up at the stars for a moment. Then he slipped over the sill and left the Father behind. 

  


When Sarah woke, it was to silent, deep blue night. She lay still, trying to think what had awakened her. There was no sound anywhere. The sky was overcast again, and heat lightning flickered somewhere far away. But she could hear nothing. Now there was absolute silence. Yet a moment ago a sound had awakened her. 

Closing her eyes, she drifted, seeing a clear mental image of Jim as he looked down at her in her dream and spoke so urgently to Amanda. She could see the bruise on his right cheek and the cut on the left side of his forehead, and his words were clear as light in her mind. 

_She has to know what to expect._

In that instant, she knew that she had not been dreaming. And in the next, she knew that she was not alone in her bedroom. 

Between her and the open window, a shadow stood tall and still as death. 

From deep in her mind came the throwback child's terror of ghostly apparitions, and her heart hammered in her ears. The shadow stood offside against the lighter rectangle of the window, its left side outlined clearly. The stance, the tilt of the head, even the outline of the ear were as familiar to her as her own self-image. 

Spock. 

Jim was here, on Vulcan. She knew that now. And if Jim was here.... 

Amanda, weighing alternatives, trying to make a decision. _I hope you'll forgive me tomorrow...._

_She has to know what to expect._

And now it was night again. She had been asleep for over twelve hours. It was more than a day since a silent shadow had sped across a window. 

A sense of supreme unreality overcame her, but now it did not isolate her. It was an infusion, bringing with it a great calm, a great sense of the rightness of the universe. 

"Peace and long life, Spock," she whispered, and held out her arms. 

His shadow moved, disappearing in the darkness next to the bed. There was no bonding link between them now. His death had severed them. But she knew intuitively what he would do. 

She heard him go to his knees beside the bed as he had once, so long ago on Tara, and she put her arms around him as he laid his head on her breast. 

As she traced the shape of his ear, she realized that the soft, roughened hair was longer than usual. His voice too sounded different--husky--as he whispered, "Who interrupted us then?" 

"The landing party," she whispered, stroking his hair. "From the _Enterprise_." 

A shock passed through him, and his entire body stiffened. "Jill screamed." 

"She was frightened. She's all right now." 

He relaxed again, sighing. "Oh, Sarah--where _were_ we?" 

She had believed that Sarek's warnings had prepared her, but she had been wrong. Keeping herself calm by an act of will, she answered in simple sentences, now moving her hand down over the light hospital garment he wore. How had he gotten out of the hospital? Wasn't anyone watching him? It was desert-night cold outside. Did they even know he was gone? 

He was shivering--had been shivering slightly, she now realized, when she first took him in her arms. _God damn!_

He sensed her agitation, pulled back and raised his head--startled, tense. 

"Here--get under the covers." She drew him close and pulled the bed coverings up around their necks as his arms went around her. 

The physician in her said, _Watch it. You have no idea what his condition is._ But that admonition was less relevant than the memory of his voice long ago: _You think too much about making mistakes._

His shivering diminished, and she knew even without being linked with him that he was already intensely aware of her nakedness. But this was not real time, and she could not relate what was happening to them to any reality but her body and his. For a moment another memory gave her pause; the only time they had ever made love without the mind link had been a disaster. But she knew that even if he remembered the link, he was not yet ready to seek it and did not even miss it. This was not a renewal. It was a celebration. 

Moving a little away from him, she undid the tabs on his hospital gown, removed the gown with his ready assistance, and drew him against her once more. 

Their usual pattern was reversed at first. Except for one intensely pleasurable episode that had surprised and delighted them both, he had always been her lover and she his eager and responsive beloved. Now, although his body remembered all that they had been to one another and needed no coaxing, he laid his hand on her breast as though he had never seen it there before. There was a shyness about him that was totally unfamiliar, at once disconcerting and deeply moving to her. 

It changed when he entered her. She drew in her breath and cried out softly, her body moving beneath his and her head turning on the pillow. Within seconds all his shyness was gone. She was sure that her response to this most intimate touching had triggered his memories of their loving each other in another time and place. He kissed her throat and then her mouth--slowly, sweetly, but with a self-assured urgency that was as welcome as it was familiar. Exulting, she felt his smile against hers as he whispered, "Tell me 'I told you so.'" And she did that. 

He had always lain with her until she slept, sometimes holding her and sometimes just being there, knowing how much it meant to her to have him close. But until this night he had seldom slept when she did; more often than not, she had awakened to find him meditating or working at the computer. And so she found it disturbing to feel him relax and fall deeply asleep in her arms. 

Now the physician in her demanded acknowledgment. She eased him down beside her and checked his vital signs. Pulse and respiration were steady and within his familiar norm, and his skin was warm and dry. Yet she had never known him to sleep like this. 

Her eyes now adjusted to the darkness, she lay watching him for a time, wondering with considerable apprehension exactly how he had been brought back to her arms alive. And still he slept, unmoving. Eventually, she lay down with her cheek touching his shoulder and fell asleep herself. 

She woke to find him stirring, not yet fully awake. Heat lightning flashed across the sky, and thunder rumbled close by. Incredulous, she realized that it was the thunder that was disturbing him. 

At a louder clap, he came awake, sitting straight up. "Sarah?" 

"I'm here. It's all right. I'm right here." Spock? Afraid of thunder? 

"What world is this?" he asked. "Are we on Tara now?" 

"No. We're home. On Vulcan. See?" She pointed to the window, where reddish clouds piled against the black sky. Once more the lightning flashed, and thunder crashed around the house. To her horror, he covered his face with his hands. 

"Spock, please. It's all r--" 

"Wait," he whispered, hands still covering his face. "Please don't talk. Let me...." He lowered his hands, and holding them out in front of him, he examined them carefully, turned them over and examined them again. Then he raised them to his face once more and ran his fingers lightly over his features. His eyebrows almost vanished into his hair, and his expression.... Before he spoke, she knew what he would say. 

"Fascinating." 

Relief flooded her. But then he looked at her, his expression changing to painful confusion. "But why was it _dying_?" 

"What was dying, Spock?" 

He turned, pulled his pillow up, and leaned back against it, his eyes still seeing something that she could not even imagine. The thunder crashed again, but he barely flinched. She waited. He did not answer her question. 

Finally he said, "I must have been dreaming. His mother would never have permitted it." Then, after a moment: "If she knew." Since Sarah could not think what to say to that, she remained silent, watching him with growing apprehension. Then, incredulously: "But if he did use protomatter, that is precisely how it would have ended." 

"No one would use protomatter." 

His head fell back against the pillow and his eyes closed. "Saavik has much to learn about spurious analogies," he murmured. "His father...never...cheats." He was asleep again. 

She sat gazing at him for a while, and then shivered. Getting up, she covered Spock again and then put on a heavy robe, her mind reviewing what he had said when he woke to the thunder. 

Sarek had told her the story of the most recent voyage of the _Enterprise_ , filling in details that Jim had not shared with her and Amanda. All information on the Genesis project was tightly classified, but Sarek had been given access because of his diplomatic status. 

David Marcus had built the Genesis torpedo. But with protomatter? 

_His mother would never have permitted it...if she knew...His father never cheats._

It had to be David. 

She stood at the foot of the bed, staring at Spock. Could he be hallucinating? _God damn, how could they let him wander around alone like this?_

Deep in thought, she moved to the first-floor balcony outside the open window--the balcony that Spock had climbed, she was certain, in order to reach her. Couldn't remember Tara, or why they had been there together. Couldn't remember God-only knew what else. But.... 

As she came out on the balcony, a figure rose from a bench in the pre-dawn shadows at the other side of the garden below. And she knew then who it was who had watched over the son of Sarek on his first night home from the dead. 

"Sarek," she said as he came close enough to hear her, "how did he get away from you?" 

"I was in meditation. He was asleep. Or so I believed. When I roused, he was leaving the room." 

"You followed him." 

"Indeed. He must find his true memories, Sarah. I would not deny him that. But--" He sighed. "Such an incident must not be repeated. He must be watched at all times." 

She shook her head. "Don't worry. He's--" _Dead to the world._ She bit her lip, hard. "He's exhausted. He won't be going anywhere for a while." 

"I made the same assumption," Sarek reminded her. "He is not himself, but do not underestimate his"--ghost of a smile--"ingenuity. In that, at least, he is quite himself." 

"Can you tell me what's happened?" 

"I shall, but not now. I must sleep." He was ghastly pale. Probably hadn't slept since.... At the moment, she had no idea what day it was. 

"Of course." She inclined her head, and he responded in kind and turned away. "Sarek--" He paused, turning back, and she continued in Vulcan: "I accept your gift of self, father of my husband." 

He tipped his head back, a characteristic gesture of appraisal with which she had become familiar over the years. Again a smile touched his dark eyes, and she thought that objectively, he was better looking than his son was. Objectively. She was not in a mood to be objective. But the thought was there. 

"The obligation was mine, wife of my son." He turned again and walked away toward the wing where he and Amanda lived. 

  
Sunlight warmed the world once more, and again a bird was singing a greeting to the new day. Sarah sat on the edge of the bed, touching Spock's hair where it curled slightly over his ears. She had insisted that he put the hospital gown back on, and then tucked him in again. Now she could not get enough of looking at him. 

"Do you remember what you said to me last night?" she asked. 

He smiled. It was T'Ara's quiet, grave smile--except for his eyes. 

"Yes," he said softly, joyfully. 

"I don't mean then." She blushed a little, uncomfortably conscious of the fact that she had never blushed at anything he had said to her before. His intent, childlike gaze disconcerted her. "I mean when you woke up later." 

The clear dark gaze still held hers, but the smile faded. "Later?" 

"When the thunder woke you." 

He frowned, pressing his lips together. "I do not remember that, Sarah." He sounded very much like a little boy caught without his homework done. 

Keeping her voice steady, she said, "It doesn't matter. Don't worry about it. It's not important." _Please come back,_ she thought. _Oh, my love, please come back._

"Then why did you ask me?" Literal. Almost plaintive. 

_Mother?_

Sarah heard T'Ara's telepathic call across two intervening rooms as though it had come crashing against the walls of her mind. 

T'Ara was alone. 

Running through Shevek's room, she saw that the crib was empty. Amanda must have taken him up, believing that T'Ara's trance was still deep enough for it to be safe to leave her momentarily. 

"I'm here, little one." 

T'Ara was sitting up, her long dark hair hanging limply, her eyes half closed. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Sarah struck her child on the cheek, knowing that it was not a hard enough blow to rouse her from the healing trance. But a small green mark appeared on T'Ara's cheek. 

Sarah raised her hand again, and then paused, reminding herself that T'Ara's Vulcan genes were physiologically dominant. _Just hit her hard,_ she thought. _This is not a human child. Just hit her really hard._ But still she hesitated. 

Strong, familiar hands grasped her shoulders from behind and moved her aside. Spock took her place on the edge of the bed and struck T'Ara once, twice, three times. They were sharp, firm blows, expertly delivered. Yet only one mark remained visible on T'Ara's cheek--the first one. 

The child's eyes opened, and with one quick movement, she grasped her father's wrist. Then her green eyes widened, staring. Sarah tried to find her voice, but it was gone. 

T'Ara controlled, still holding her father's wrist. Watching, Sarah could almost see the hypothalamic control mechanism come into action as the child's uneven breathing slowed toward normal. T'Ara and her father regarded one another in silence while the child controlled what could only have been traumatic shock: in a healing trance, she could not have known that the fal-tor-pan had been successful. 

"Good morning, Father," she said, and smiled her grave smile. 

"Good morning...." 

Still smiling, T'Ara the healer inclined her head encouragingly. 

"...T'Ara," Spock said softly -childlike, gentle, proud. 

"Indeed," said T'Ara. She let go of his wrist and took his hand, put her feet over the edge of the bed, and stood up. "Come," she said firmly, brushing her lank hair behind her ear with her free hand. Her sleeping robe hung in folds around her thin body. Her face was pale, but there was a radiance about her that brought tears to Sarah's eyes. "You must eat, and so must I. Mother will make us tea and --" Her eyes met Sarah's, and now they sparkled. Pausing, she inclined her head toward Sarah as she had toward Spock a few moments before. _Your turn, Mother._

"Tell you stories," Sarah said faintly. She had said it often when her children were ill: _I'll make you tea and tell you stories...._

"Indeed." And still holding her father by the hand, T'Ara led him off to breakfast as though she had done it every day of her life. 

  
To Sarah's relief, Spock recognized his mother, and even responded to her tearful human embrace. Shevek, at whose birth he had been present three months before, was favored with an abstracted smile and a tentative touch on the cheek. But Spock's manner was passive and distracted. As they sat down to breakfast, he had turned to Sarah and asked, "Where is--?" But the question remained unfinished. 

It soon became obvious to Sarah and his parents that there were too many people in the room for him to relate to all of them; the situation was confusing and perhaps even frightening him. In tacit agreement, they withdrew, leaving him with his daughter, the only one able to treat him as though his behavior were normal. By the time her mother and grandparents left the room, T'Ara was telling her father the first story he had ever told her--the story of his own kas-wahn. 

"She is a child." Sarek took his wife's hand as they sat down together on the couch in Sarah's living room. Tears came to Amanda's eyes, and Sarah fought back her own tears, thinking of Spock's expression when he had tried to remember what he had said to her when he woke in the night. 

_When I was a child, I thought as a child._

"Tell me what's happened to him," she said, holding Shevek against her shoulder and absently patting his back. 

Sarek gave her a detailed account of recent events, stressing the part that James Kirk and Leonard McCoy had played in Spock's return to life. Sarah listened, trying to take it all in, trying to save it in her memory. Only twice did she feel shock, and then painful empathy for Jim. 

"David was killed?" And then, later: "But why did they they have to destroy the ship?" Again she listened, trying to grasp it all. But a part of her consciousness remained on the voice in the next room--T'Ara's voice. 

_He isn't asking questions,_ she thought in despair. _He just listens._

"What is your impression of Spock's condition?" Sarek was asking. 

"He remembers the people he's closest to, but not much else." She told them of Spock's words to her when he woke in the night. "He doesn't remember anything about Genesis consciously. But it's there. I can't tell you much more than that." She closed her eyes. "I don't know why I'm so tired. I just slept the clock around." 

Amanda gave her an exasperated look that reminded her of Kim. "My dear, we're all exhausted. I think--" She glanced at Sarek. The two of them had apparently discussed this before. "Spock should be back in the hospital--" 

"No." Sarah's arms tightened around her son, but in memory it was another baby she held as dark Vulcan eyes watched her, demanding their due. "I want him here." 

Sarek rose and went to stand at the window, his hands clasped behind his back. Opting out? Controlling? Cradling the now drowsy Shevek more gently, Sarah took a deep breath. 

"I scanned him this morning," she said, speaking more calmly now. "There's nothing physically wrong with him. He belongs here, with us." But in the next room, T'Ara's low, soothing voice went on and on, uninterrupted. _Why didn't he ask any QUESTIONS?_

"He is not himself," Sarek insisted. "Re-education is necessary." 

"I know that. But keeping him a prisoner--" 

Amanda's gaze flicked from her husband's back to Sarah, and she shook her head once. 

"There are no prisons on Vulcan, Sarah," Sarek said softly, not turning. 

"I'm s-- I regret that I said that." Sarah sighed, then smiled briefly and shook her head when Amanda gestured to her to give her the baby. "I'd be the last one to say that he doesn't need care. But I can take care of him, and he does remember--his true memories of me are intact." 

"How can you be certain of that?" Sarek's voice was cold. 

Sarah turned her gaze to Amanda, who smiled faintly. Still meeting her human mother-in-law's eyes, Sarah mouthed silently, _He doesn't want to know._

"Sarek--" Amanda rose without haste, went and laid her hand on her husband's arm. Sarek turned his head to look at her. Their gaze held for a moment, and then Sarek raised his eyebrows. "This doesn't have to be settled today," Amanda went on smoothly. "Surely it won't hurt him to be here with his family for a few days before--" Now, for the first time, she hesitated, frowning a little. 

"Before what?" Sarah asked. 

But it was Sarek who answered. "He must be re-educated by Healers. It is the Vulcan way." 

_Right back where we began. Over my dead body._ Sarah rose, still holding her son, and walked toward the two at the window. "That will be his decision, Sarek." 

"He is not able to make decisions." He sounded stiff, controlled. Angry? 

"Then we'll wait," said Sarah, "until he is." She paused as Sarek turned, withdrawing his arm from Amanda's hand, his dark eyes searching Sarah's--the luminous dark eyes of an intelligent humanoid in great pain. 

Not anger. Fear. "You wish him to be not-Vulcan." 

"No!" Horrified, Sarah cried out, and Shevek whimpered and wriggled. "I want him to be what he _was_!" Forgetting all she thought she knew about Sarek, she reached out and laid her free hand on his arm. "Please don't make us adversaries, Sarek. Is that what you think I want?"  
   


For a moment he simply stared at her, and it came to her that he had never really seen her before. "I do not know what you want, wife of my son," he answered in Vulcan. "I never have."

Shevek squirmed, wound up, and let out an outraged howl.

Air bubble, Sarah thought in despair. _Not now, Shev. For God's sake..._ No use. If Shevek were to become telepathic, he was not telepathic now. He commenced to holler as no Vulcan baby would ever holler. She knew without looking that the little face in her shoulder was screwed up and deep pink. Like all Vulcan infants, T'Ara had cried tears, her face pale and suffering. Shevek cried noise.

As Sarah patted the baby's back, his grandfather moved around to look at his face. Shevek howled on, working himself up to a fine fury as his mother found herself torn between laughter and tears. Sarek's eyes met hers, a smile in their depths, and she thought how much he looked like Spock at that moment. Then Shevek burped, sighed, found his thumb, and sucked it enthusiastically.

Sarek's mouth curved upwards at the corners. He sighed, closed his eyes, and shook his head. Then he opened his eyes and looked at Sarah.

"It shall be as you wish, then," he said quietly. "But do not make assumptions about Spock's abilities and perceptions, Sarah. He is not himself, and will not be for some time. It will not help him if you believe otherwise because you wish it to be so." His gaze lingered on hers. "Be vigilant. Do not leave him alone while he is awake." His eyes shifted to Amanda. "My wife, attend." And he left the room, heading home across the courtyard.

Pressing Sarah's arm briefly, Amanda followed him.

Watching them go, Sarah felt a great weight lifted from her. Sarek's warning drifted around her, barely heard.

Her second child had been raised a Vulcan. But this one...."I don't think you're going to make it, little one," she whispered, holding the baby close. "I think we just got the word."

Shevek continued to suck his thumb, vastly unimpressed.

  
Sarah spent the early part of the afternoon watching Spock and his son together. The experience was both moving and disturbing.

Wearing only his falling-off diaper, Shevek rocked and grinned, delighted at having a fascinated audience with such a long attention span. Spock, clad in a lightweight tunic and loose trousers identical to the ones that Sarah and the rest of the household wore at leisure, lay stretched out on the floor next to the baby for the better part of an hour, simply watching Shevek rock.

It was all right, Sarah told herself. He had never seen T'Ara at this age, and he was tired. She leaned her head against the back of her chair and closed her eyes.

T'Ara's stories had had limited effect, and the child had finally given up and gone off to rest after lunch, looking pale and disappointed. And he still had not asked even one question. No mental stimulation. As a cognitive therapist, she was one terrific obstetrician.

Her mind wandered to the hospital. Two or three more days, and she would have to go back to work.

She dozed, and woke to find Shevek asleep on his blanket on the floor. His father still lay stretched out beside him, eyes closed, cheek resting on his hand, his other hand holding the child's. The two dark heads were close together on the floor.

 _This can't go on,_ she thought. _It's no good._ But he was resting. They all needed rest.

She woke again, with a start this time, to find Spock looking down at her, a child's urgency in his dark eyes.

"Sarah--"

She smiled encouragingly. _Ask me a question,_ she thought. _What time is it? When do we eat? Anything._

"Where is Jim?"

"He's here," she said, flooded with relief. "On Vulcan. Your father says he wants to come and see you tonight--"

"Is he on leave?"

She opened her mouth to answer, and it stayed slightly open. Same childlike tone, but-- _On leave._ It was the first time he said anything even remotely related to Starfleet.

"No," she said joyfully--and then realized, too late, what she had done. The change in his expression was so sudden and so profound that it literally took her breath away. Suddenly it was no longer a very tall child who stood looking down at her, but a worried, startled adult, eyebrows on the rise.

"Not on leave?"

She stood up and took his hands in hers. "No," she repeated, her mind scurrying among alternatives. There must be no lies. That much she knew. But tell him the truth? Now? "He--they're working on--on a project near Mount Seleya." She wondered if he could feel her palms sweating. What would he ask next? What project? Who are "they"?

"How did he bring me here?"

"He'll tell you that himself, when you see him. Soon, Spock." No promises either. For all she knew, Jim could be in the brig on Starbase Vulcan. Sarek had invited him and his crew to stay with him and Amanda, but Jim had declined. He and his crew had committed a court martial offense when they stole the _Enterprise_. Spock's family must not be involved.

She squeezed Spock's hands tightly and then withdrew hers, taking his arm. "Please--you've been up since morning, and I have to bathe Shevek." She glanced at the baby, who was awake and bouncing again. "Lie down for a little while. Please? T'Ara will be up soon, and then we'll have supper." _Won't that be nice?_ The words almost slipped out, and she shuddered inwardly.

After a moment he answered, "Perhaps you're right." His words were compliant, even submissive, yet the expression in his eyes had not changed.

"I'll go with you--"

"No." He touched her face, the first time he had done so all day. "I can find my way." He stroked her hair back from her forehead, and now there was another expression in his eyes, one that she found obscurely disturbing. A sadness. No. Something else.... "You bathe Shevek." And he turned and left the room, walking with more assurance than she had seen in him since he returned.

She bathed Shevek, pondering while the baby splashed. Only when she was wrapping him in a towel did she realize what that last expression in Spock's eyes had been.

Apology.

She froze, then spread the towel on the floor, left the naked baby rocking and bouncing, and ran.

Be vigilant. Do not leave him alone.

Spock was not in bed.

He was not in the bedroom.

He was nowhere in the house.

  
"The _Bounty_ , sir?"

Jim Kirk wiped his sweating face with the sleeve of his Vulcan tunic and smiled grimly at his chief engineer. His only engineer, he reminded himself. And this, his only ship.

"Tell McCoy," he said, and wiped his face again, wondering if they could ever get the smell out of his only engine room. Unwashed Klingons didn't smell any worse than unwashed humans. But Kruge had apparently not been big on showers for the crew. "What do you make of all this stuff?"

"T'would be nice," said the Scot, "if I could read Klingon."

"Come, come, Scotty--I thought you were the miracle-worker in this motley crew." The Scot snorted, but grinned a little. _Good,_ Kirk thought. _Have to start somewhere._ "What do you think? Can we work here in the daytime?"

"I dinna think so, sir." Scotty was trying to look stalwart, but not succeeding. He looked as though he were about to pass out. "The air is a mite thin, and if it's this hot every day--"

"The air is the air." Kirk spoke T'Pau's words before he could stop himself. He grimaced, obviously puzzling the engineer, who cocked his head and frowned. "Sorry, Scotty. Private joke. Very unfunny. I just meant that we'll all need some tri-ox to accomplish this particular mission." He frowned at the profusion of incomprehensible dials and readouts. "And they tell me it's winter here. Looks like we'll have to work at night, then. You game to start tonight?"

"Aye," Scotty answered without missing a beat. "But I thought ye were goin' t'see Mr. Spock tonight," he added wistfully.

Kirk gazed at him in silence for a moment, and then he said gently, "We'll all go as soon as the sun goes down. Then we work."

"Sir, I wouldna wish to butt in--"

"Scotty--" Kirk raised his arm, and then let it fall to his side. "Shut up." He smiled, and Scott smiled back. Then he heard a sound behind him, near the entrance to the ship, and turned.

Spock was leaning against the door frame, exhausted. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and his skin glistened. His eyes roved around the engine room as he struggled to comprehend. As Kirk moved toward him, still hardly believing what he was seeing, Spock's eyes focused on him with recognition, comprehension, and horror.

"How did you get this?" he whispered, and slid down a little against the bulkhead.

Kirk grasped his shoulders. "The spoils of war. Spock, let's get you out--"

"Did you have Starfleet's permission to bring me here?"

Kirk froze, and their gazes locked. "No," he answered, wondering if he'd lost his mind. Yesterday morning, Spock had been the next thing to a child. But now.... "I had to reprogram that scenario too."

The dark eyes filled with tears, and Kirk remembered: _I weep for V'ger as I would for a brother._

He pulled Spock close, shutting his eyes against his own quick tears, and felt Spock's arms go around him. Living. Breathing. Whole. At what cost? At any cost.

Then Spock's knees gave way and he slipped down, still hanging on. Living, yes. But now Kirk remembered Saavik's report of the physical torment that Spock had undergone while he grew up in hours on Genesis, screaming in agony each time the planet convulsed in its death throes, then collapsing exhausted when the pain left him temporarily. Extreme physical trauma, Bones had said. Anticipate acute exhaustion. Possible complications. Maybe the nightmare wasn't over yet.

"Scotty," he said, "get McCoy."

Beside him now, Scott whispered, "Let me--"

"Get him!"

And Scott was gone.

He wanted to say _Hang on. I'm here. Don't let go._ But the engine room was a furnace. Spock's breathing was labored, and they were both pouring sweat. Acute physical exhaustion; possible complications. He pulled away and eased his blessed burden sideways, lifting Spock's arm around his shoulders. No good. Spock collapsed against him. He would have to carry him out. But outside the sun was shining. Hotter than this out there? Spock had grown up on Vulcan, but in his present condition--

Then Sarah was beside them, looking scared out of her mind, pulling Spock's other arm across her own shoulders.

"Outside," she said.

"The sun?"

"Almost down. Please. _Outside._ "

  
They laid him on the ground away from the heat of the _Bounty_ 's hull, beneath one of the trees that surrounded the landing field. Above them, Seleya rose gold and red in the sunset. But purple shadows grew under the trees, and a breeze had come up as Sarah landed the aircar near the Klingon battle cruiser.

Spock was conscious, and cooperated as they laid him on the ground. But he then he raised his hand to touch her face. "You think too much about making mistakes," he whispered.

She shook her head. "Oh, Spock--if I'd understood, I could have brought you." In her panic, she had forgotten her medical kit. "I forgot my kit," she said to Kirk, wondering what she expected him to do about it.

"McCoy'll be here soon." Kirk squatted down on Spock's other side and reached out to lay his hand on Spock's shoulder. But before he could, Spock reached up and took his hand. His eyes on Kirk's face, he whispered, "What have you done to yourself?" But it was more than obvious that he already knew.

"What you would have done." Kirk laid his other hand over Spock's. Their gaze held, and Sarah saw Kirk tense, anticipating Spock's next question.

"Where is the _Enterprise_?"

Sarah suppressed a sharp intake of breath. An hour ago, he had been lying on the floor with a sleeping baby.

There was a pause, and then Kirk said quietly, "I destroyed her. The Klingons were boarding, and all the systems were out."

Spock simply nodded. All the signs were pointing in one direction; he had only to look there. His hand tightened on Kirk's, and they were both silent for a moment. "And the crew?"

"All safe." Then, incredibly, Kirk's grin shadowed across his face, even touching his eyes. "All five of us."

There was another pause, and then Spock sat straight up, his eyebrows flying. _"Five?"_

"Easy. Easy." Frowning now, Kirk forced him to lie back. Then Spock's gaze shifted from Kirk's face, and Sarah glanced over her shoulder.

McCoy. A scarecrow with a medikit.

"Heat exhaustion, Vulcan style," she told him, her mind swirling with questions about his mental state. Yet she and Kirk both moved aside as McCoy knelt beside Spock and scanned him.

"How far did he walk?" McCoy asked.

"About three kilometers."

"Lovely," McCoy grumbled, preparing a hypo. "Up to his old tricks. Wasn't anybody _watching_ him?"

"Somebody thought she was."

He glanced at Sarah, smiling a little. "Join the club, Doctor," he said, and then turned his eyes to Spock's. "What game did you run on her, Spock? 'Perhaps you're right'?"

Spock simply stared at him. Finally he whispered, "Did I see the ship fall?"

Another long moment of silence, and then McCoy nodded. Drawing his gaze away with apparent difficulty, he moved to administer the hypo.

"Please don't."

McCoy looked up, startled at Spock's tone. It was the voice of a frightened child, pleading. Again the doctor forced himself to look away, and administered the hypo. Spock's eyes closed immediately. His body relaxed, and Sarah sighed with relief.

"Why didn't you give him a stim?" Kirk demanded.

"That's the last thing he needs right now." McCoy busied himself putting the hypo away, his voice rough. "If I got the dosage right, he'll sleep deeply for about ten or fifteen minutes." He glanced over at the aircar, just a few meters away. "Then he'll be able to make it home." He looked at Sarah then, and she nodded.

"Sleep _here_?" Kirk persisted.

"Why not? He's comfortable, and this is cool for a Vulcan." Another hypo appeared, and again McCoy glanced at Sarah. Not for permission, she noted with approval. Just keeping a colleague informed. "He's dehydrated," McCoy said. She nodded again, and again a hypo hissed.

"What's wrong with him, Bones?" Kirk asked.

"There's nothing physically wrong with him except acute exhaustion. I told you to look for it."

"Why did he collapse?"

"Jim--" McCoy sighed, and his expression softened. "He passed out, that's all. After what he's been though, he's just too damn weak to be walking around. Beats me how he got this far." Again his eyes turned to Sarah, this time with a question.

As the sun set, she filled them in on what had happened since the evening before. When she finished, the three of them were silent, all looking at Spock, now enjoying the brief rest that his doctor had prescribed.

His doctor.

Of course.

"Doctor McCoy," Sarah said, "I wonder if you'd be willing to take this case. If the patient agrees, that is."

"That'll be the day," said the patient's physician.

"I don't agree. He--"

"Sarah, you're dreaming." McCoy was not speaking colleague to colleague now. It was the patient's wife he was talking to. "Never once has he willingly obeyed a medical order from me. He's always made it a contest of wills."

" _He_ has?" Kirk asked, smiling a little.

"All right. All right. We both have. Habits form easy and break hard. I just don't think...." He looked down at Spock.

Sarah too looked down, and it came to her that Spock was awake, even though his eyes were still closed.

They had often been _en rapport_ on Tara even before they were bonded, and with an eerie sense of deja vu, she realized that they were again linked without the bond. There was no doubt in her mind that he was awake.

"There's nothing physically wrong with him now," McCoy went on, frowning now, still looking at Spock. "But if he keeps going off on his own, anything can happen. He has to have an attending physician he'll cooperate with. His life could depend on it. If Vulcan voodoo will keep him where he's safe from himself, I'm all for it." A harsh, twisted smile. He looked half dead himself. _Shock,_ Sarah thought. _What did they do to him on that mountain?_ "As a physician, I can't take responsibility for a patient who won't permit me to take responsibility." He sighed, and his voice softened. "Much as I might want to." Sarah sensed in him the same combination of deep affection and bewildered impatience that she was also sensing in Spock.

"Bones, I'm not sure--" Kirk began.

"Look, Jim. He gave his father the slip to go find Sarah, and then he gave her the slip to go find you. Do you actually believe he'd _deign_ to tell _me_ what he has in mind?" Now, at last, a familiar tone.

The admiral was silent, scowling.

"Would you gentlemen excuse us for a few minutes?" Sarah asked. They both stared at her. "I want to talk to him alone when he wakes up."

"Lotsa luck, Doctor," McCoy said, but he rose to his feet anyway.

Kirk's eyes met hers for a moment, and they both smiled a little. "Lotsa luck, Doctor," he murmured, and moved off to join McCoy, who was drifting toward the ship.

As soon as they were gone, Spock opened his eyes. "Why didn't you tell them I was awake?"

"I wanted you to hear what he was saying."

"Fascinating," he said murmured. "His argument was totally logical."

"But hardly unemotional."

The expression in his eyes changed then--still intent and childlike, but so much more. "My Sarah," he said softly, "if memory serves, it was you and Jim who taught me that logic and emotion are not always mutually exclusive."

 _In less than an hour,_ she thought, blinking back tears. _This much of a change in less than an hour?_ "He wants to make you tea and tell you stories," she whispered.

For an instant, he was Spock again. "That is debatable." But then his gaze strayed from hers, taking in the landing field, the aircar, the figures of Kirk and McCoy now standing with Scotty near the Klingon ship, and then, finally, the mountain above them. Seleya, silent sentinel of his childhood, silent symbol of all that was Vulcan. Again she saw the struggle with confusion, almost fear.

"I must speak with McCoy," he said, frowning, and pressed his lips together. "Will you wait?"

 _Yes._ But the word was never spoken.

Of course. He belonged here. And yet.... _I can't do this,_ she thought. _Haven't I given enough? Must I give him up again so soon?_ But the alternative.... Again the eyes of her mind saw him lying on the floor with his son.

"No," she said.

If she were seeking to revive true memories, it was clear that she had succeeded. All the pain that she had always sought to spare him was suddenly in his eyes.

"Spock, don't." Taking his face between her hands, she spoke with all the intensity she possessed, certain that he would remember the day long ago when she had refused to stand in his way when he chose to return to Starfleet rather than remain with her on Vulcan. "This isn't about who. It's about where. You remember. You _do_ remember." He nodded, his eyes searching hers. "You know where to find me." Withdrawing her hands, she extended the first two fingers of her right hand, and was overjoyed when he immediately met them with his. "You know I'll always be there." He nodded again. "How long does it take to walk it? Tell me."

"Fourteen point...." He paused, and his dark eyes smiled. "...one four one six plus minutes," he whispered, pulling her close and hiding his face in her hair.

She held him tight, thinking _He's not going away yet. He'll be right here. He is NOT going away yet. He'll be right here._

"Yes," he said huskily, and pulled away a little to look at her directly. "I must speak to the doctor now."

She nodded. "Please tell Jim I'd like to talk to him while you're doing that."

As Kirk walked toward the aircar where Sarah stood, he kept glancing back over his shoulder at Spock and McCoy, who now stood together in the shadow of the Klingon ship.

Giant shadow, gliding across the window.

Shadow of life.

Feeling the tears come, she went to meet him and clung to him silently, unable to find the words she so wanted to say to him.

He hugged her for a moment and then drew away. "Don't, Sarah. It's too much like...the last time." He took her by the shoulders and shook her a little. "Come on. He'll be fine." His smile wavered then, and he turned her slightly so that he could look over her shoulder at Spock and McCoy.

"Does Jill know he's--here?" she asked.

"I sent her a subspace message yesterday morning."

"How was she when you told her...when you saw her on Earth?"

"Bad." For a moment, his eyes were haunted. But then he forced himself to smile again. "But she'll be fine now." Again his gaze drifted toward Spock and McCoy. "He sort of...fades in and out, doesn't he."

She closed her eyes, clasped her hands together and pressed them against her mouth, unable to answer.

"Sarah--"

She shook her head, clasped hands still pressed to her mouth. _What if he's never the same again? What will we do if he never--_

"Open your eyes." He shook her once again, hard this time, and she opened her eyes to see him looking directly at her, Spock and McCoy momentarily forgotten. "He's there. You can see him."

She nodded, hands still clasped against her mouth.

"Do you have any idea how far he's come while he's been with you?"

They stared at each other for a moment, and then she said softly, incredulously, "That's what I was going to say to you."

There was a sound from the aircar, and Kirk whirled. "Is there somebody in the 'car?" If he'd had a phaser, it would have been in his hand.

She unclasped her hands and laid one of them on his arm. "Yes. Come on. I want you to meet him."

  
Leonard McCoy leaned against the ship he had re-christened the _Bounty_ , feeling trapped and scared. Damn Jim. Just walking away like that and leaving him alone with--

"I wish to communicate with you, Doctor," said the terrifying void before him. "And yet--" The frown. Lips pressed together. _Don't do that!_ McCoy thought, and pushed the thought away. This was a patient. Just another patient. "And yet," Spock continued, "I do not."

"It figures," McCoy said drily.

"Figures?" He was a child--a confused, uneasy child in the presence of a wisecracking adult.

Slowly, McCoy straightened up. "I'm sorry, Spock. Try to tell me what you want to say. Maybe I can help."

"I should like," said the enigma before him, "to agree to your terms."

"What terms?"

"The terms under which you would agree to be my attending physician during my recovery," Spock said earnestly, patiently, as though it were McCoy who was a child.

For a moment, McCoy simply stared. Then he murmured, "Well, I'll be damned. Uh--sorry." He scratched his head, his eyes still on Spock. "And what terms are those?"

"I must not give you the slip," Spock answered immediately, proud of himself, reciting his lesson.

"Do you know why, Spock?"

"You cannot be responsible for my care unless I deign to tell you what I have in mind."

 _Foxy, aren't you. And we all thought you were still asleep. Still can't get the damn dosage right._ "I...see. No, dammit--I don't see. Why do you think I should be your physician?"

"It is logical."

"You gotta be kidding. Why is it--"

"Because," Spock explained earnestly, patiently, as though to a child, "it is what we both want to happen."

McCoy closed his eyes and massaged the lids until he was sure he could keep his voice steady. Then he opened them, straightened his shoulders, and clasped his hands behind his back.

"I would be honored, sir," he said.

  
Sarah noted with relief that her son's diaper was still firmly in place for his first meeting with the admiral. She had been in a panic when she put it on, but the silverweb had apparently kept it where it ought to be. Binding him securely even though he could not feel it, the web was designed to keep a small child in an aircar in the event of turbulence or an accident. Now the gossamer stuff floated around him on the padded area behind the two front seats, shimmering faintly in the slanting rays of the setting sun.

Kirk said nothing, but simply stared at the child, a peculiarly ambivalent expression on his face. Somebody else's son, Sarah thought belatedly. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.

As though on cue, Shevek over-rocked and fell on his chin, his baby eyebrows shooting high.

Kirk chuckled, and Shevek looked up and smiled, deftly gathered himself up and commenced rocking and grinning while the admiral quietly cracked up. As McCoy and Spock approached across the landing field, Kirk turned slightly toward them. "Bones," he managed, "you gotta see this. You have got--" He was off again--a man who had not had a good laugh in much too long.

Spock paused a short way from the aircar, hands behind his back, head tilted slightly to one side, taking in the view. McCoy approached the 'car, looked in, and asked incredulously, "How old is this child?"

"Ninety-six days Vulcan," Sarah informed him, sliding into the front seat. "About three and a half months Terran."

Hearing a new voice, Shevek favored McCoy with an especially enthusiastic version of The Smile.

"My God," said the doctor, grin spreading. He pointed at Shevek, then turned wordlessly -still pointing, but now at Spock. Then he quarter-turned to point back at the baby while still grinning ear to ear at Spock, who tilted his head to the other side. The smile deep in his eyes was not a child's smile.

Sarah, who had crooked her elbow on the edge of the open 'car window, briefly hid her face in it. The admiral was inarticulate.

Finally getting his breath, Kirk moved toward Spock, coughing a little. "Spock--" He laid his hand on Spock's arm. Even from the back, Sarah could see that he was infinitely more relaxed than he had been a few moments before. "Go home and get some sleep. That's an order."

Hands still behind his back, the smile that was not a child's smile still lingering in his eyes, Spock answered quietly, "I _am_ home, Jim."

McCoy's grin died, but his eyes shone in the gathering darkness. Kirk stood absolutely still, his hand still on Spock's arm, his gaze holding Spock's. Then he turned, walked to the aircar, and laid his hand on the edge of the window opening, his gaze searching Sarah's.

"He knows where he belongs," she said, her eyes meeting his.

"And you?"

"I'm not that far away." She laid her hand on his sleeve. The words she could not find a few minutes before were now quite clear. "And besides...." She tapped his sleeve lightly with her finger. "...I owe you one." Their gaze held a moment longer. Then she exchanged a long look with Spock, and touched the control panel. As the 'car rose silently, she looked down at the three of them for a moment, and then turned toward home.

  
Jim Kirk stood watching the aircar for a few moments, then turned, walked back to Spock, and stood facing him, his hands also clasped behind his back. And Spock faded in, one eyebrow rising.

" _Five_ , Admiral?"

McCoy thought that he had not seen Kirk grin like this since before Khan.

"That's what you get," the doctor said lightly, joyfully, "for missing staff meetings, Captain."  


	11. The Captain of the Bounty

# The Captain of the _Bounty_

  
On their first night in the Transient Officers' Quarters (TOQ) in Con Tower, the crew of the _Bounty_ had been a sideshow. With Spock as part of the entourage, they were the main event. The staring eyes and turning heads confused him, even frightened him, which infuriated Kirk. McCoy did him the dubious favor of telling him that his feelings were perfectly normal under the circumstances, but he could not believe it. Spock was alive and beside him; all that James Kirk had set out to accomplish, he had accomplished. Yet by their third morning on Vulcan, all he wanted was to find someone he could safely punch out. Clearly, TOQ was not the best place for this particular set of transient officers to live for the next three months.

He spent another sugar-and-bile day requisitioning a bubble pipe and the necessary furnishings for the bubble. In the first coolness of evening he programmed the pipe with Spock as a fascinated observer: minute bedrooms with clothing recyclers, a bath with solid waste reducer, a centralized food-service area, and the office that would be their base of operations.

Spock's responses to the programming operation made Kirk want to cry. He was fascinated by the readouts on the bubble's tiny console, even though, initially, he had no idea how to use them. Yet each new procedure that Kirk showed him became his own. By the time they were ready to activate the programming, he had the internal specifications of their dwelling committed to memory, and when Kirk wondered aloud if the office area were too small, Spock quoted the figures in three dimensions. "I do not think that will be too small, Jim." Then, without pause, he rattled off the ratios of cubic space to internal population that were used in building Constitution-class starships, figures that he and Kirk had not discussed since the last renovation of the _Enterprise_ when it was converted to a training vessel. "The allotted space will be adequate for our needs," he finished, sounding as he had always sounded. Yet a moment later he was questioning Kirk like an insecure child regarding the procedure for modification of an existing design feature.

When they were ready, Kirk was tempted to asked him if he would like to push the switch, as one might ask a child if he wanted to perform a task under adult supervision. Resisting that impulse, Kirk pushed the switch himself, and the bubble in which they would live for three months expanded from the top of the console, glittering in the fading light. It broke free, floated to the area where it had been programmed to float and settled to the ground several dozen meters from the _Bounty_ , sealing itself in place. Kirk turned to Spock, but suppressed what he had been about to say.

Spock was looking in the direction of the bubble. After a few moments he spoke, still gazing into the middle distance. "Who or what was the Companion?" Before Kirk could answer, Spock turned to him, smiling a little. "Zefrem Cochrane. Gamma Canaris N. We took the _Galileo_." The smile spread. "The second _Galileo_." He clasped his hands behind his back.

Kirk nodded, grinning, and they went to inspect their handiwork. All they needed was time, he told himself. Give it a little time and they'd all be fine.

That night, they began to decontaminate the ship. "Are you sure he's up to this?" Kirk asked McCoy, sweating under his backpack of chemicals as he watched Spock. "My God, Bones--four days ago he was dead."

"I'm watching him."

"Are you sure _you're_ up to this?"

"Get off my back," McCoy snapped without pausing in his work, sounding as though he wouldn't have minded punching somebody out himself.

After their first joyful reaction, the others were uneasy in Spock's presence. He asked fewer questions now, but had a tendency to follow them around, first one and then another, as though he were trying not to be a bother to anyone in particular.

In the morning, with Spock already sound asleep and Scotty still prowling the ship, Kirk sat in the office with his coffee and his CMO and listened with growing irritation to the conversation in the next room.

"I just wish he'd talk more," Sulu was saying. "It's like having a...." His voice trailed off.

"Say 'ghost,'" said Uhura, "and you'll wish you hadn't."

There was a short silence, and then Chekov's smug voice said, "Ghost."

Something hit the wall. There was a sound of muted laughter, and then something else hit the wall.

Kirk sprang to his feet and McCoy said, "Don't."

"They're adults." Kirk kept his voice low with an effort. "They're Starfleet officers--"

"Leave...them...alone."

Kirk stared. In all their years together, McCoy had never used that tone with him, nor had he ever seen those eyes so blue.

He sat down. After a time, he drank his coffee. After more time, the laughter and the splattering were replaced with normal conversation and the sounds of clean-up. When Kirk went to the door between the two rooms, the food area was as immaculate as it was devoid of intelligent life forms.

Four-sevenths of an apple pie lay in its plastic tin in the exact center of the table, cut into four wedges. Kirk picked it up, carried it back into the office, laid it in McCoy's lap and then stood back, arms akimbo, his teasing grin and defenseless stance inviting retaliation for his Herbert-like behavior a few moments before. McCoy studied him as though genuinely tempted, then closed his eyes, shook his head, opened his eyes, picked up one of the pie wedges and took an enormous bite.

"Good breakfast," he said. "Natural sugar. Lots of energy."

"What would you have done if I'd gone in there?"

"That's for me t'know an' you to figger out." McCoy wiped his mouth on his sleeve and his hands on his shirt. "How about letting up on yourself too? Throw something and then clean it up, like they did." He gestured toward the wall with the pie tin. "Might do you some good."

"I'm fine."

"Like hell you are." The blue eyes met Kirk's directly. "Jim, there is a dead boy that you've hardly talked about, and a dead ship that you haven't talked about at all. Forget the rest of us. Give yourself a break."

"Spock is alive."

"Spock is not your son, and he is not your ship. You can't expect him to make up for the loss of--"

"I am _not_ expecting--"

"And I am _not_ finished." They glared at each other in silence for a moment, and then McCoy went on. "Losses are losses. Don't try to bury them with gains." Kirk made a quick movement. "And don't run away from them. Which reminds me. Where is that girl? Why isn't she here with us?"

"What g--you mean Saavik?"

"Yes, I mean Saavik. What problem is she wantin' Spock to solve for her?"

"That's privileged information, Doctor," Kirk snapped.

"Terrific. Here we all are--"

"We?" Kirk lashed out on a hunch. "What problem are you wanting him to solve for _you_?"

The color left McCoy's face, but his gaze did not waver. After a moment, he said, "Thank you."

"What for?"

"For callin' the kettle black." McCoy stood up, and staggered. Kirk moved to his side, hand under his elbow. McCoy raised his hand and patted Kirk's shoulder. "Don't worry about it."

"Bones--"

"It'll pass." The man was out on his feet. By the time Kirk had guided him to bed and covered up him up, he was sound asleep.

Kirk stood looking down at him, all his anger gone. _I'm not,_ he thought. _That's not what I'm doing._ But it was a long time before he fell asleep that day.

  
At first it surprised Spock that he felt most comfortable with Montgomery Scott. But then he remembered: once, long ago when he had been split in two, his human half had sought out Scotty for human company unburdened with tension. Now, when so much of what was Vulcan in him was still inaccessible, it was Scotty who accepted the fact that memory did not serve.

"I cannot remember," he admitted, controlling his impatience at the fog in his mind that still would not release needed information on demand. "I do not understand how these intermix equations differ from those for the _Enterprise_ engines."

"Aye," Scott sighed, as though he were as confused as Spock was. "'Tis a bit of a puzzle, sir, with everything written in Klingon and all. I'm goin' on the seat o' me pants m'self." But he pulled out a stylus and drew expertly on the bulkhead. It still dismayed Spock to see the crew scribbling notes and diagrams on every flat surface. But since the inside of the ship would eventually be repainted as part of decontamination procedures, there was no logic in restraint. "Y'see, sir...." Scott went on drawing and talking, and the concept he was illustrating took shape in Spock's mind as though Scotty were drawing it there. _Because it is already there,_ he thought. _I must find the means to tap into--_

"FIRE!"

The shout came from outside. Sulu's voice. The bubble or the ship? Had Sulu forgotten the first rule of--

"Bubble on fire!" Still Sulu, now pounding on the outside of the ship as he ran past, and Spock controlled his pride in a student well taught. With no words wasted, he directed Scott in the most expeditious method of using the ship's fire-fighting equipment outside the ship in case back-up equipment was needed.

Outside it was full night, clear and unseasonably warm. Kirk and McCoy had gone to Con Tower one point two nine hours ago to deliver a progress report, so there was no question in Spock's mind as to who was in command of the fire-fighting operation. Nor, it appeared, was there a question in anyone else's.

Working like the team they had always been, he and the others attempted to extinguish the fire that had begun inside one of the walls in the central food-service area. But soon he ordered them all back, knowing what would happen next, even as they all did. The bubble exploded, scattering flaming, noxious debris several meters in every direction.

"Most inefficient construction," Spock murmured, and wondered why Uhura gave him a quick, grimy smile. "It should have imploded. Mr. Scott, prepare to dispense a coolant so that we may initiate cleanup operations before the captain and Dr. McCoy return. Mr. Sulu, come with me." And he moved off, too intent on examining the wreckage of their temporary home to see the wink that Sulu, grinning, exchanged with Chekov as he obeyed.

  
After the other two were gone, Uhura went on smiling. "'The captain.' He still calls him that about half the time. But did you see those moves? Not just what he said. But those _moves_!" She imitated Spock's hand movements as he had instructed Scott to dispense coolant, and Chekov smacked one fist into the other as though he were applauding both the original and the imitation.

"Lass," Scott said with a sigh, "don't set your hopes too high."

"But didn't you _see_ him?"

"Aye. That I did. But I've seen that b'fore. D'ye not ken that he only remembers facts when he sees or goes through somethin' that reminds 'im? That willna suffice if he's t'be what he was. He canna possibly experience everything he ever knew!"   
   
   
   
 

Another dawn was breaking, another work "day" ending. By the time they had cleaned up the mess that remained of their home away from home (Good thing, Kirk thought, that none of them had so much as a pot to pee in of their own here), the night was almost over, Spock had taken an overnight pass to visit his family, and the rest of them had stretched out under the alien stars for a few moments' rest before heading back for another day/night in TOQ.

"Abstractions," Kirk said. "He's going to have to relearn everything from astrophysics to xenology. What do you think, Bones?"

"I think he needs to go away to college," McCoy answered with a faint grin. "Can't keep him tied to the apron strings indefinitely, and there are learning aids in existence that could re-educate him in a few weeks."

"Those are Vulcan techniques," Kirk said uneasily.

"Jim, it's got to happen sooner or later. What're you gonna do--order him back to the Academy for two or three years?"

"I can't order him anywhere," Kirk said, and there was a long, empty silence.

Finally, Chekov asked, "Vill he be able to decide for himself vat he needs to do?"

"I hope so, Pavel." Kirk grinned at his only navigator, and then got to his feet. "Let's get moving. I won't be able to requisition another bubble pipe in time to keep us from frying out here today. Let's go up to TOQ and get some sleep." And eat some more shit, he thought. The only good thing about that was that, once again, he was the only one who would have to do it.

  
That evening, as he and Spock approached the new pipe, Kirk said, "Your show, Mr. Spock. Think you're up to doing it by yourself this time?" He seated himself a few meters away on the ground and rested his arms across his drawn-up knees.

As he had expected, Spock hesitated. "As you wish," he said. But his gaze lingered on Kirk's, questioning.

"Give it a try, my friend," Kirk urged him. Was this the same Spock who had directed the fire-fighting operation last night? He himself had not seen that Spock since Khan, and he wondered if it were some kind of collective wish-fulfilling dream on the part of the rest of them. "If you need me, I'll be here."

Spock smiled a little, nodded, turned, and went about his work without assistance.

An hour later, they had a new bubble, perfect to the last detail, and programmed to implode in case of fire.

  
"Hours would seem like days," Spock had said once. "By The Book, Admiral." But there was no Book to go by now, and each hour was longer than the last. The crew gradually lost much of their tension and took on a resigned gaiety that obviously made their work more pleasant. As the weeks passed, McCoy looked better and more relaxed every day, although Kirk sometimes wondered what inner trouble that might be covering up. But eventually he decided that speculation was sheer projection. Bones, damn him, had been right. James T. Kirk was the one who was covering up.

Losses are losses, McCoy had said when Kirk had offered "Spock is alive" as a one-sentence recompense for the loss of his son and his ship. But as the weeks wore on and the days grew cooler and more humid, the winter of his discontent seemed interminable and his thoughts turned often to death.

Even though David's death had been as unavoidable as Saavik's and Spock's would have been if the _Enterprise_ crew had not intervened in time to save them, he could not overcome a deep sense of having lost something barely found. He tried to talk to McCoy about it, only to discover again what he already knew--that Bones felt as though he had lost his daughter in the painful ending of his marriage to her mother. But Joanna was alive somewhere; she and her father even corresponded from time to time. There were still options open, and he had known her and cared for her as a child. Kirk had known his son so briefly that even now their meeting was like a dream, and there seemed to be no one in the universe who could understand the emptiness that thought brought him.

But for the death of his ship he could still feel no grief. Sometimes, on waking, he would forget for an instant where he was, and open his eyes expecting to see the captain's quarters aboard the _Enterprise_. But he did not dream about his lady, only saw her again and again in fantasy as she plunged to her death in a sky the color of dried blood. "Did I see the ship fall?" Spock had asked McCoy that first evening under the trees outside the _Bounty_. And Bones had nodded; Spock's katra had seen her die through McCoy's eyes. Yet Kirk had had no feeling of Spock's presence at his side during that brief agony, and there were times when he wondered if the full impact of the sight of _Enterprise_ plunging to her death were waiting in the wings to be shared by the only one who really could--and never could.

There was no question in his mind that the Spock he had known was returning to him. The Vulcan healers were doing their work well, and yet Spock was doing what Kirk had come to think of as holding his own against all odds. There had been no emotional withdrawal that Kirk could perceive, and in spite of his own unshed burdens, he could still rejoice in that. But everything had its price. Spock no longer slept through the day in the bubble with his crewmates, but went home to his family each morning. _Be patient,_ Kirk counseled himself. _He's never had a chance to be with them for this long a time before._ Yet he and Spock were never alone together, although they worked together all day.

The weeks went by, and then Jill was there, home for mid-winter break from PREPDIV. The feel of her arms around his neck and her hair against his cheek was a welcome respite. But the two of them, who always had had so much to say to each other, now became easily tongue-tied. There was no _Raven_ to sail on the Bay; he was not staying with Sarek and Amanda as he always had before when he came to Vulcan; he was persona non grata at the Officers' Club, and so there was nowhere they could go to simply talk together except the office or the food center of the bubble. His crew took off, trying to give them space. But both of them felt awkward and uneasy in that context, and then there was the basic fact that Jill slept nights and he slept days.

One morning soon after Jill's return, he watched Spock head for home with a feeling of despair that he seldom allowed himself. He had dreamed of David the day before--standing in the captain's quarters of the _Enterprise_ , saying, "I should have known you'd come." Waking, he had realized that those words, almost David's last, had not been spoken on the _Enterprise_ but as a disembodied voice. That trick of the unconscious mind disturbed Kirk deeply, and he found that he did not want to sleep and dream again.

An hour later, he was on his way up the garden steps, inwardly castigating himself. But he knew that no one would be there but Spock and possibly Jill. Sarah worked nights now too, but she had a day meeting at the hospital, and Spock would be Shevek's sole caretaker all day. If he left before the rest of them got home, there could hardly be a problem for Spock's family, and he did not want to spend another day dreaming about David or trying not to think about him.

  
Lying on the couch in the study, feeling better than he had in days, Kirk watched Shevek scoot across the floor toward the tall, floor-length windows that opened onto the garden court.

"Do all kids crawl that fast?" he asked, calculating. "He isn't even six months old yet, is he?"

Sitting cross-legged on the floor behind the small potter's wheel that his healers had recommended as relaxation therapy, Spock raised his eyebrows without answering. No expert on babies, he. The wheel hummed, and Shevek went on crawling toward the open window.

"Shevek," Spock said without raising his voice. "Stop."

To Kirk's surprise, the baby stopped crawling, appeared to think it over, and then went on crawling without looking around.

"Stop now," said the Father.

There was no change in Spock's tone, and the wheel continued to hum. But the baby stopped again. Still without turning, he straightened his legs so that he was all but standing on his head and gave the Father his famous smile from between his own legs.

"Keep alert, Mr. Spock," Kirk said, grinning. "Those trainees'll get you every time."

Shevek immediately flopped down and continued crawling.

In one graceful movement, Spock rose, swooped down on his son, lifted him--squealing with delight and still crawling in the air--deposited him on Kirk's chest and returned to his wheel, looking insufferably pleased with himself. The wheel had barely slowed during his absence.

"Hey--!" Staring into the grinning baby face, Kirk tried to sit up, thought better of it, grasped Shevek around his middle and moved him a little farther away. "Is this thing waterproof?"

"Affirmative, Admiral." Spock was so deadpan that Kirk would have suspected he was controlling if he hadn't looked so completely relaxed.

"Well...hi, Shev," said the admiral with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, and then grinned again in spite of himself when Shevek made an imitative noise that sounded like "Hi!" Still holding the baby around his middle, Kirk pulled him to a sitting position. "Looks like we're stuck with each other." He thought about baby Peter, with whom he had become friendly one summer when Sam and Aurelan had visited at the farm while he was on vacation from the Academy. Easing himself to a sitting position, he gave the baby one forefinger and then the other, expecting to have to show him the game as he had had to show Peter. But Shevek grasped his fingers with surprising strength, and when Kirk raised his hands slowly, saying, "Up. Up," the baby actually attempted to stand, gathering his legs under him. Kirk pulled him up, and realized that he'd been had. Peter's attention span had always outlasted his uncle's, and Shevek was even more determined.

After what Kirk thought was a reasonable length of time, he put the baby on the floor again and began to discuss the spaceworthiness of the _Bounty_ with Spock. The conversation moved quickly to the reception they would receive when they got to Earth, and Kirk's attention moved with it; they had discussed the subject before, but always briefly, and always in the presence of the rest of the crew. Now, with only Spock there, it was much easier to explore all possible futures without concern for listening ears. The subject was not a pleasant one, and yet discussing it with Spock, alone, was pleasant and unthreatening on this summer/winter morning light years away.

Kirk was only peripherally aware that Shevek had returned to pull himself up, using the admiral's knee for balance. Now Shev patted his knee urgently, repeating "Bup bup bup" as though it were an actual word. Still intent on his conversation with Spock, Kirk laid his hand on the baby's arm, and Shevek was quiet. But when Kirk removed his hand, gesturing to emphasize a point, Shevek arrived at the end of his patience.

"Up!" he demanded. "Now!"

Pausing in mid-sentence, Kirk stared first at Shevek, then at his father. "I didn't know he could talk."

Spock stared back, no longer deadpan, the wheel silent under his hands. His lips moved. Four syllables. No sound.

 _Fascinating._

  
Shevek had missed his morning nap, and fell asleep on the admiral's chest shortly before midday, thumb in his mouth, seat in the air. The admiral closed his eyes, trying to decide what evasive action could be taken under the circumstances. The next thing he knew, it was late afternoon; he had slept dreamlessly for more than five hours. The house was quiet, and Spock was nowhere in sight.

"Spock?"

"Here, Jim."

He turned carefully, so as not to disturb the baby, and saw that Spock was standing at the window, looking out. His voice sounded muffled.

"Are you all right?" Kirk asked, touched by a vague apprehension. He sat up, gathering the stirring but still sleepy baby against his shoulder, and went to stand beside Spock at the window. Looking out, he drew in his breath. The sun hung just above the wing opposite, red and oddly rounded by the intervening atmosphere. It was almost time for the Na-Shoma, the spring wind that would break the unusual humidity. Odd-looking sunsets were commonplace at this time of year, he knew; he had awakened to one only a couple of days ago. But this one.... By some atmospheric caprice, this sunset looked very similar to the ball of fire that had watched Genesis in its death throes.

"I did not know you," Spock whispered, staring at the apparition in his home sky as though it were the eye of hell. "I did not know any of you. There was nothing...there."

Kirk turned him from the window and laid Shevek against his chest. "Take him. Come on, Spock. Take him. Hold him."

Spock sighed and took the baby in his arms, looking down now, away from that awful glowing ball in the sky. Shevek, now wide awake, looked back up at his father and grinned.

"Hi!" he said, and waved his fist.

For a moment, Spock simply stared. Then both eyebrows did a slow rise that ended near the hairline. When Kirk silently cracked up, letting the tension go in soundless laughter, Spock raised his eyes and tilted his head to one side. "It's not _that_ funny," he said, faintly reproving.

Kirk, unable to answer, could only nod.

  
As they walked back to the _Bounty_ together, Spock asked, "Why did you decide to visit us today?"

Kirk stopped in his tracks. "I forgot."

Spock turned to face him, frowning. "You have forgotten why you came today?"

"No." Kirk sighed. "No, I haven't forgotten. But...I forgot about it all day." They began to walk again. "Until now."

As he had expected, Spock did not ask what it was he had forgotten all day. Instead, he repeated a Vulcan idiom that Kirk had heard before, from Spock's father when he was a house guest in Sarek and Amanda's home: "It pleases me to share my home with thee."

"That isn't all you shared with me today, my friend." Spock smiled a little. "I accept your gift of self. Can't remember how to say it in Vulcan."

"You're welcome," Spock answered.

They were both still smiling when they arrived at the ship.

Jill sat on the study floor across from Spock, cross-legged as he was, the potter's wheel between them. In a time no longer out of mind but clear as her eyes, a child with those same eyes had often sat with him on Tara's white beach, listening to stories from the stars. Often he had fancied that she understood him; when he would tell her over and over that her father was the captain of a starship, she would point to a bird wheeling in the pale green sky and say "flying" when she knew few other words. It was the word "father" that had meant nothing to her then, for there was nothing in her experience to give it meaning.

"How is J.T. really?" she asked now, and the question flung him around the sun into the present moment.

"Really?" he repeated softly, wondering what had happened to the Spock who always had a ready answer to every question. And if not....

 _Speculate, Mr. Spock. How is J.T. really?_

"Is he sad?" she pressed. "Angry?" He felt her force herself to say the other. "Scared?"

The wheel spun on, and Spock's hands went on stroking the dry clay. _Is she old enough to understand him?_ he wondered. _Does she love enough to understand him?_ Finally he said, "All of those, perhaps."

"What about David? Does he ever talk about him?"

"It is difficult for your father to speak of David with us, who did not know him."

"He was on the _Enterprise_ , wasn't he?"

"Yes. But--" He sighed. "There was not much time for social interaction."

"Then he and J.T. didn't get a chance to know each other." He heard the aching disappointment in her voice, and raised his eyes to hers, questioning. Sarah had told him more of Jill and David than Jill knew she had. But unless Jill told him herself, he could not speak of it to her. "I went to see David once," she went on, and he made no attempt to control his relief. "Last year, just before they left for Spacelab. We were only together for a little while, but...it was funny. Kind of like we knew each other better than we did."

"Your mother has told me of this meeting." Spock hesitated, then stopped the wheel. "I would not have spoken of it with you if you had not brought it up." She nodded, reassuring him that he was not violating her privacy. "It might be well if you were to consider sharing this information--" He paused, frowning. "It would be good for your father if you were to confide in him."

"About knowing David?"

"Indeed."

"Oh, Spock, he'd be furious." She smiled nervously, and he thought: _You are not here to fulfill his expectations_ \--and put that thought aside for further examination in context. "It's been over a year," she went on. "I didn't tell him then. If I tell him now--"

"He has attempted several times to communicate with David's mother. She has refused to answer his messages. It is Dr. McCoy's opinion that your father needs to talk with someone who knew David. He believes this could be an integral part of the grieving process."

Not ready. He saw it in the quick, unconscious movement of her hands, clasping together as she said, "I didn't really know David."

A step backward. One must go more slowly. One could not, after all, shout at a child: _Are you blind? Can't you see his pain?_ Help _him. You're the only one who can._

Slowly, then. "That is not what you appeared to be saying a moment ago."

"I can't just walk up to him and say, 'Guess what I did'!"

"He needs something that only you can give him, Jill. Just as you once needed something that only he could give you."

Ready or not, that gave her pause. Her gaze continued to meet his, and her hands remained still. "But he'll be mad at me for not telling him sooner."

Spock allowed himself a smile. It was, after all, fully appropriate, if not particularly logical.

"Don't you know by now how long that lasts?"

  
When she had gone, he went on spinning the potter's wheel, attempting to center himself as the healers had instructed. But it was a difficult task. His own words echoed in memory: "He needs something that only you can give him." _You are not here to fulfill their expectations_ , the Father had said, and the Father was wiser now than he was in memory. He spoke the truth. 

His truth. And expectations are not the same as needs.

Memory's ears heard the words: "My God, Bones, what have I done?" And McCoy's answer: "What you had to do. What you always do...." Memory's eyes saw Jim's agony. But memory's voice was mute.

He stopped the wheel and let his head fall backward a little, losing his center as it fragmented in pain that was as much his as the other's.

"T'hy'la, how can I help you?" he whispered. And memory answered.

  
That evening, Jill came to the bungalow and requested the admiral's company. "We can't go sailing here and we can't go to the club here and we can't do this in the daytime because it's too hot. Do you really have that much work to do tonight?"

"Yes," said Kirk, and McCoy said, "No," and Kirk said, "Bones."

McCoy just looked at him, hard.

"No," said the admiral, and he and his daughter went off together to round up a herd of mandilla.

In the gathering darkness, they angled west and slightly south across the northwest corner of ShiKahr toward Sarek's home, and then climbed on past it, over the hill to the parkland beyond. Out across the forge, the sun had already disappeared behind the L-langons; only a faint citrus glow illuminated their tips and the western slopes of the north range perpendicular to them--the same barren peaks that had shot sunward beneath the Bird of Prey until Sulu banked it around Seleya to land on the plateau hidden from the city by the mountain's southern shoulder. Then the eastern sky had been pale orange and the north range the color of old wood--a misty peach-yellow ambience, all edges indistinct. Now the mountains north and east loomed knife-edged against dull gold, and Kirk was glad the L-langons were far away to the west. Born and raised on the flat belly of North America and later accustomed to the infinite reaches of space, he had no liking for horizon-blocking facades unless he could climb them. These last weeks, he had found the near ranges increasingly oppressive--the confining, consigning walls of an alien world, ever reminiscent of the fact that he and the others were not free to come and go, but only free to stay.

Nor had he any great liking for wandering around on the edge of the Forge in the dark without a phaser. But Jill assured him that the force field at the park's inner boundary would readmit them without difficulty; only large nonhumanoid predators were excluded. In any case, there didn't seem to be anything alive in the vicinity except for a flock of mandilla--small airborne equines, short-snouted and dark-eyed like the dawn horses of Earth, but hollow-boned, their wings rustling faintly as they clustered around the two humans.

"Another research project?" he asked, and she nodded, her mind elsewhere for the moment. This past term, she had become the first PREPDIV student to win Starfleet Academy's Fossey award for her telepathic research with alien animals, specifically a Vulcan snake called the varnth. The only real conversation the she and her father had had since her return to Vulcan had been about the project itself, which obviously interested her far more than the award did. "Am I in the way here?"

"Just don't make any sudden moves. They startle easily." Her manner was abstracted rather than commanding, but there was no doubt as to who was in change of the mission. "I have to get them marked so I can locate this herd with a tricorder later on."

"Are you sure I'm not expendable?" he asked drily. "Doesn't look like you need any help."

"I don't." She bent to spray a slender fetlock, and moved on to the next. "But if I said I just wanted to talk to you, you wouldn't have come with me."

Kirk watched her thoughtfully as she moved from one animal to another. Finally, he said, "It wasn't much fun back at HQ, was it?"

"No. But I'm not the one who lost a ship and a son and is probably going to get a general court." She sprayed two more fetlocks, and then walked back toward him, hooking the hypo on her sash, two of the mandilla trotting along with her, one on either side. She was wearing a sleeveless shift, round-necked and loosely sashed at the waist, the soft material of the flared skirt rippling in the evening breeze, her hair blowing around her shoulders. Back at the ship, the shift had looked yellow-gold and she had looked about fifteen, which she was. In starlight, the shift looked dark-gold, and she looked like the woman she almost was. "Are you ever going to talk to me about David?" she asked quietly. Her hand stroked a mandilla's nose, and then pushed it gently away as she took her father's arm and steered him back across the park toward the low hill behind Sarek's house.

"It's hard, Jill. You never knew him, and--"

"I knew him. I went to see him once, last year. In San Francisco. Just before they left for Spacelab."

He stopped, trying to see her face in the darkness.

"Come on, J.T." She patted his arm. "I have to sound for predators if we're out here in the dark. You can get mad when we're inside the force field."

After they had walked on for a few moments in silence, he asked, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I was afraid you'd go see him and the two of you would fight. Did you?" She was still trying to sound casual, but there were tears in her voice now.

"Why did you think that?"

"We had a fi--an argument. About you. I tried to tell him...." He realized that she was crying, and he forgot his anger and pulled her against him. "Oh, this is so dumb!" she wailed. "All this was supposed to be for you."

"Tell me what's hurting," he said huskily.

"He h-hated you, and it was tearing him to pieces. I tried to tell him--"

"No. Now listen--"

"I can't think about him dying like that. He could have been so diff--"

"Listen to me. He said 'I should have known you'd come.'" There were tears on his own cheeks now, but they were for her pain, not his. "From Genesis. 'I should have known you'd come.'"

"You're not just saying that!" It was a plea and an accusation.

"No, I'm not. Listen now." He kissed her hair and tasted his own tears there. "Are you listening? When we thought--when Spock was dead, David came to see me. He said he'd been wrong about me, and he was sorry. He said he was proud to be my son. So you can stop hurting for him, because he wasn't hurting anymore. He died free. Are you listening? He was free, Jill. He was free."

She cried a little longer, but the desperate sobbing was over. He held her, silent now, until she stopped crying, sniffed, and said "Damn" against his shoulder.

Then he said, "I have a handkerchief this time."

"In a minute." She didn't want to let go, he realized. Neither did he. _At least I held him once,_ he thought. _And he was free._ "At least you got to know each other," she said then.

"In a way. There wasn't much time."

"If he was proud of you, he knew you." He did not answer, but simply held her. _He knew you._ "I had this great fantasy," she went on. "I was going to comfort you, make it all up to you by being...." Her voice drifted off, uncertain.

"Just be Jill."

"Is that enough?"

He took her by the shoulders and pulled her away from him. But it was too dark to see her face.

"What more do you think I want from you?"

She sighed, leaning her forehead against his chin. "Nothing, I guess."

"You guess?"

"I mean--just nothing." She sighed again, her forehead still against his chin, his hands still on her shoulders. "David and I were like this when we said goodbye." The tears came to his eyes again, but he did not speak. At this moment, he would not have interrupted her to save his life. "I told him I had a little sister. He said a little sister would be nice, and he put his hands on my shoulders, and I...." They held each other tight for a long moment, and then she said, "I liked him."

"I liked him too," he managed to say.

After a moment, she said in a different tone, "J.T., we have to get through the force field. There's a Le-matya about a kilometer from here, and I think it can smell us."

"You _think_...."

"Well, if it's that close, it can smell us."

"Is it coming fast?"

"No. It isn't hungry. I think it's just curious." She took his arm again, and they climbed over the hill and into the lights of ShiKahr together.

Later, as they parted at the foot of Sarek's hill, she asked, "Are you scared about going back?"

"I don't think so." He glanced at the north range, opaque now, a featureless wall, still looming. Here be dragons. But scared? "No. I'm not." At her incredulous stare, he smiled a little. "Jill--do you know who Alec Styles is?"

She grimaced. " _Excelsior_? Everybody calls him Smart Alec?"

"The same. Well...." How could he make her understand? "He patched in bridge-to-bridge just as _Enterprise_ cleared Spacedock. _Excelsior_ was right behind us. He said, 'Kirk--'" Chirp. Not a bad imitation, he thought. Jill was enthralled, but her mouth twitched anyway. "'Kirk, you do this and you'll never sit in the center seat again.'"

"What did you say?" Jill whispered.

"'Warp speed,'" he whispered back, grinning now, and felt it happen again. The overwhelming certainty, the once-in-a-lifetime knowing.

At any cost.

  
When he got back to the _Bounty_ , McCoy said, "You look a helluva lot better than you did when you left."

"Jill and I had a talk. About David."

"You're smiling again," was the doctor's only comment.

  
For the first time since he had lost his ship, James Kirk woke looking forward to his work shift. Tonight they would reseal the bulkheads and the deck, and in the morning he would tell them that they were going back into space tomorrow night. For a week. Impulse only, Morrow had insisted. Under no circumstances were they to test the warp engines on this shakedown. In a little more than two weeks, they would head for home, and they would have plenty of opportunity to warp then. But they were going, and Spock.... Kirk smiled, imagining Spock's reaction to the news. Since he had been in training, he had come along by leaps and bounds, no longer asking constant questions, on his way back to life with quiet zest. Like old times, Kirk thought, and stretched again. He knew it for the fantasy it was, knew that once it was over, reality would close in again for good. But he was determined to indulge himself for this short time.

"For a week," he told them later that night. The sealing had been accomplished in less time than he had anticipated because of Spock's unaccustomed presence during their entire work shift. Some kind of a Vulcan holiday, he had said, ignoring McCoy's expression of exaggerated disbelief in the fact that Vulcans had holidays. And now, two hours before sunrise, the work was done and Kirk had decided to surprise them early with the news.

They were indeed surprised, and then joyful. All smiles, Kirk thought, rejoicing. All except Spock.

Their gaze held, and it came to James Kirk that he had been riding yet another falling star.

The others drifted out, their pleasure muted. Sounded like they were talking in church, Kirk thought with one part of his mind, while the major part of it still tried to deny what his eyes were telling him. On the bridge of the _Bounty_ , he and Spock faced each other in the dull red glow of running lights.

"Why aren't you going with us?" he asked. His voice was clipped, but at least it was even and low.

"I may not be back on Vulcan for a year or more," Spock answered. "I have a bondmate, and a daughter, and a son who will in all likelihood not remember me when next we meet. This shakedown cruise would consume half of the time I have left with them. That is...unacceptable, Jim." No stiffness, no control. Just a simple statement of fact, with his compassion shining in his eyes.

"Unacceptable to Sarah, you mean."

"Sarah knows nothing of this," Spock reminded him softly. "It is unacceptable to me."

"Do you have any _idea_ \--" He saw his own pain reflected back at him in two dark mirrors, and made himself stop.

"Yes." It was only a whisper.

He looked down, at the side of the command chair next to where he stood. Kruge's command chair. Not his. _Kruge's._ Without his volition, his hand balled into a fist and swung sideways, ready to smash against the arm.

He felt rather than saw Spock wince, torn with pain not his own, and stopped the fist in mid-swing, nails biting into the palm of his hand. Then he let it go, swinging it so that it bounced harmlessly off the side of the chair arm.

"I didn't think," he said, letting the fist bounce a second time, and then a third. "I'm sorry."

"Yes," Spock whispered again. "I know." Still looking down at the bouncing fist, Kirk heard him sigh, and then speak normally. "This is a night for windflying. With the crew dismissed, perhaps you would care to accompany me."

Kirk looked up then, startled. Much as Spock might share his pain, peace offerings were out of character.

"I brought the packs with me last evening, Jim. I had intended to suggest this in the morning."

"Yes, of course you did." Kirk smiled, trying to think of a way out. He did not want to go windflying. He wanted to find Bones and get stinking drunk. "Are you sure you really want to?" he asked, and then realized he was fooling no one.

"Yes. I am."

"Why?" It was a plea.

"I want to show you something. It is not yet dawn, and I have a promise to keep."

  
They flew together for an hour, and it was good. Kirk felt his pain drain away as they circled and swooped, diving and rising and diving again. The other time, they had flown over the L-langons; this morning they explored the range east of Seleya until a faint glow touched the peaks from behind.

The valleys beneath were still dark and silent with waning night when they landed on an overlook bounded by a waist-high wall, and stripped off the wings. They were in the middle of the mountain range, facing east into the rising sun with no higher peaks to block their view of it. They had not spoken since their flight began, and neither of them spoke now. They simply leaned on the wall together, watching silver birds wheel and soar as Kirk remembered the promise Spock had made so long ago, after Edith's death.

 _"At dawn, there is the sound of silver birds against the sky.... You will find peace there."_

When the sun's rim had cleared the horizon and the silent birds were gone, Kirk teased, "Poetic license, Mr. Spock?"

Spock looked at him sideways. "Only Vulcans can hear them," he said, deadpan, and raised an innocent eyebrow when Kirk laughed softly.

"They teaching you that in school too?" A shrug was his only answer. "What _are_ they teaching you in school?" he went on. "I don't see you going Vulcan on us again, and neither does McCoy."

"I am not a child now. An adult does not simply absorb." Spock straightened up. Sensing some agitation in him, Kirk moved a few paces back from the wall to give him space, then turned to face him again. "There is much to...sort out," Spock went on, frowning a little, abstracted, and yet turning so that he still faced Kirk. "Much of it has great meaning for me, but...much of it does not."

"You're not about to chuck it all, though."

"I cannot." The dark eyes gazed back at Kirk with a new steadiness, a new strength. "It is part of me, just as you are, just as she is. It is...my world." Still frowning, he turned toward the wall again and leaned on his elbows as a human would, gazing out over the peaks and valleys below.

Kirk moved back and leaned on the wall too, his shoulder almost touching Spock's. And as he did so, a single bird rose from below, silver in the sunlight.

 _Why is it alone?_ he wondered, following it with his eyes as it rose higher and higher--soaring now, almost close enough to touch, the light shimmering on its motionless wings--then turned and flew away, directly into the sun.

He drew in his breath, eyes smarting with sudden tears. Beside him, Spock moved fractionally until their shoulders touched, and together they watched that silent departure, backlit by a rising star.

As the silver bird flew on, growing smaller and smaller in the distance, the soft, dry wind of a Vulcan morning dried his tears before they fell. When the bird finally dwindled to nothing against the risen sun, he looked down at the eastern range below them, Spock's shoulder still warm against his. And instead of a jagged-toothed monolith, he saw a pride of razor-backed leviathans sunning themselves on the curve of the world.

"They were going to decommission her," he said into the soft, dry wind.

"Then the end was fitting." Spock's answer was barely audible, and Kirk turned to look at him. At _him_ , he thought. No substitute. Simply Spock.

"Where does that leave us?" he asked, smiling a little.

The dark gaze shifted for an instant to their shoulders, and then moved back to meet Kirk's before Spock answered, "Here."

Without haste, Kirk took him in his arms. Holding and held, he did not want to cry, or to laugh, or to do much of anything except what he was doing. Nor, he knew without question, did Spock.

"So what do you want?" he asked softly. "An argument?"  


	12. The Keeper of the Katra

### The Keeper of the Katra  


  
"Who is the keeper of the katra?" T'Lar had asked, and he had answered, "I am." In that moment, pride was born of confusion and torment. The whole idea scared him shitless, but he would do it, by God--for Spock and for himself. And so he had done it, and had risen from a cold marble slab with he hope of wholeness propelling his exhausted body forward and his exhausted mind homeward. 

But quite soon, McCoy, Leonard H., son of David, was forced to face the possibility that the katra was keeping _him_. 

His first encounter with a memory that was not his had occurred shortly after the fal-tor-pan ended. Descending the steps of the dais with Sarek, he had been concentrating on the necessity of reassuring Jim that he was still in one piece mentally, even though he was not yet convinced of that himself. He had no talent for being a patient, never had had. He wanted that status cancelled, done, over with. Shaken to the core of his being, still disoriented from the trance T'Lar had induced in him, he had walked toward Jim at Sarek's side and suddenly found himself walking there in a child's shoes. For just an instant, memory was superimposed over the present, and as though viewing a double image, he walked beside the Father down the same steps. They had come there together, and Sarek had told him of the ancient legend of fal-tor-pan as they stood before the healers' altar, gazing up at the Hand of Life and Peace. He was proud to have been there, proud that Sarek had trusted him, half human as he was, to make the distinction between fact and legend. One would not believe such stories, of course. It was not logical.... And then the fugue had ended as suddenly as it began. "I'm all right, Jim," he had said, and believed it. Until the next time. 

That had happened while he was checking Spock out after he was in bed on their first night at TOQ. Bone-weary himself, he had gone to Spock's quarters only to find his patient fast asleep and Jim sitting on the foot of the bed in the semi-darkness. "What are you doing?" McCoy had whispered, and Jim had answered in kind, "Would you believe watching him breathe?" McCoy nodded, unable to speak, and after a moment, Jim had looked up and grinned. "Want to tuck him in, Doctor?" And then it happened. He was in bed, pretending to be asleep. Mother came in, leaving the door slightly ajar so that the light from the hall outside made a path across the floor. It was all right, he told himself. No Vulcan would permit this, but as long as she didn't know he was awake.... He could feel the coolness of the clean sheet against his chin, and the light pressure of her lips on his forehead.... "No," he gasped, and the memory flew away as Jim looked up quickly, concerned. "Ah--no, I don't want to tuck him in. Come on, Jim. Let's not disturb him." _What bull,_ he thought. _Couldn't have disturbed him with a lightning bolt to the pillow._ It was McCoy, Leonard H., who was more disturbed than he wanted to admit. 

But he buried it. For two days and a night he slept and worked and nagged the childlike Spock to eat his vegetables, and everybody thought good old Bones was doing just fine. If he snapped at Jim while they were decontaminating the _Bounty_ , that was normal enough, since they were all still recovering from the trauma of Genesis. No more of Spock's memories came to plague him, and he convinced himself that the two he had experienced had been some kind of sequelae, nothing more. Yet when Jim snapped, "All? What problem are you expecting Spock to solve for _you_?", he had a moment of truth: his _Help me_ to the unconscious Spock aboard the Klingon ship might have been more prophetic than he knew. For he also knew that he could not lie down on that slab again and stay sane. He was just too damn tired. 

He slept through the day after the crew's food fight, and woke at sunset calm and rested but sweating profusely. After less than a day, the air conditioning in the bubble had apparently taken ill. Throwing the blanket aside, he lay staring at the ceiling, remembering his own thoughts the evening before. _Help me. You stuck this damn thing in my head._ But it was over now. He was nobody's patient, least of all Spock's. At the thought, he gave a short, bitter grunt of laughter, then glanced over apologetically to see if he had disturbed his roommate. But Scotty was gone, probably prowling around the goddamn ship when it wasn't even dark outside yet. Sighing, he rose and headed for the shower. Time to go to work. After all, he was a doctor, not a memory bank. 

Spock's patient. _That_ would be the day. 

  
Both Kirk and Scotty were interested only in getting to work on the ship, and Spock too showed no inclination to fix the ailing air conditioner. He stood with his hands behind his back, waiting for McCoy to look up from the computer. 

"You want your pie?" McCoy asked without looking up. An entire Klingon pharmacopoeia still lurked in the _Bounty_ 's memory banks along with the Federation files Starfleet had grudgingly provided, but the FAT cube had been damaged and he was having trouble retrieving the Klingon files. The pie would let him keep at it for a while without stopping to fix himself a meal. 

"No, thank you, Doctor." 

"Fine. Thanks." With a small mental sigh, he consciously recognized the fact that Spock was not going to go away unless attended to, and sat back in the chair, arms hanging at his sides. "With apologies to Mark Twain, the worst summer I ever spent was a winter on Vulcan. It is winter, isn't it?" 

"Affirmative." 

Still slumped, McCoy looked up. "What's going on?" 

"I should like to request an overnight pass, Doctor," said Spock in his most Spock-like voice. 

McCoy frowned, concerned. It wasn't like Spock to take off when there was work to be done. Then he remembered that Sarah worked days. "All right." 

Spock's eyebrows rose to his hairline. 

Turning a little in his chair, McCoy leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and pointed at Spock. "See how easy it is?" He felt great, almost high. The nightmare was over. Nothing to worry about. "Now, don't go until the sun gets a little lower, and you don't need to make a marathon out of it." 

"Doctor McCoy, I see no reason to overdo this." 

"You don't, don't you?" By God, Spock was even starting to sound like himself. Flying high, McCoy flopped back in the chair. "Know what? I don't either." Spock's right eyebrow rose, and his eyes smiled. "Just don't push it. Take it easy and don't try to beat your time up the garden steps. It's too hot--" He felt his throat close and his mouth go dry. 

Spock was staring. 

_He doesn't do that anymore,_ McCoy thought, feeling dizzy. _He only did that when he was a kid._

Spock was staring, staring. 

"You told me," McCoy pleaded. "You must have told me." Spock's head moved, side to side. "You never told anybody." Spock was silent. "Oh, dear God," McCoy whispered, and tried to look away. 

Moving as though he were trying not to scare somebody ( _Nobody here but us..._ ), Spock picked up a chair, placed it at the corner of the table, and sat down, his gaze still holding McCoy's. ( _...chickens._ ) McCoy saw the hand coming ( _Chicken!_ ), saw his own hand shoot up and knock Spock's away from the inside. He stopped it in mid-swing, and it remained in the air, shaking against Spock's wrist. 

"Sauce for the goose, Leonard," Spock said softly, making no attempt to force McCoy's hand down. "I can help you if you will permit me to take responsibility." 

After a long moment, McCoy made himself lower his hand. 

He had expected to feel violated, brutalized, gutted, as he had felt that night on the mountain, with the livid lightning flashing and the thunder filling the universe. He felt nothing. When Spock took his hand away, he carried the horror and the anguish within it. And the memory of the little boy, running hell-bent up those steps trying to beat his own time, was no longer his. 

"I said it," he whispered. "I remember remembering. But I can't remember _it_ anymore. How'd you do that?" 

"Voodoo, Doctor." Spock rose, placed the chair exactly where it had been, and headed for the door. 

"Spock--" 

Spock turned. 

"Thanks," McCoy finished. 

"The obligation is mine." The dark eyes were clear, quiet, unwavering. McCoy nodded. "If this should happen again, you must tell me-- _deign_ to tell me what you have in mind." One eyebrow quirked. 

"You," said McCoy huskily, "have got yourself a deal." 

But when Spock was gone, he covered his face with his hands. 

  
"Well, are you satisfied?" In a warm blue darkness lit only by the Vulcan's permatorch and a few intrepid stars, McCoy followed Spock, who was inspecting the _Bounty_ 's outer hull as though it were the only object worth looking at on the face of the planet. "Finally got your revenge for all those arguments you lost?" In memory--his own memory, thank God--he saw a blue-shirted Spock prowling the outer hull of the _Galileo_ with a blue-shirted McCoy badgering along behind. Just like the good old days. In a pig's eye. "You've got me chasing you like a kid with a runny nose wanting Mama to wipe it for him. Is revenge sweet, Spock? Dammit, forget the damn ship. I want to talk to you." 

"'The damn ship,'" Spock informed him without pausing, "is in need of a thorough inspection, and revenge is not the issue." The tricorder buzzed in his other hand, and he moved on, apparently satisfied with his findings. 

"Tell me about it," McCoy snorted. "What is the issue then?" Spock moved on without answering, and McCoy continued his tirade in a somewhat lower tone. No use enlightening the whole crew. But as long as they were all inside.... "I can't get rid of these memories by myself. And I can't go back up there--" 

"There is no necessity--" 

"Not as long as you're here, right? You'll take the responsibility, right?" 

"If you will deign--" 

"Go ahead, Spock. Rub it in." McCoy wiped his streaming forehead with the inside of his arm, and then wiped his face. "All right. I've got three more that I haven't told you about." 

Spock turned, the bright, colorless torch lighting his face from below, and McCoy studied it for signs of satisfaction. Teddy bears, his very own memory informed him, have six-inch fangs. But he could detect no satisfaction in Spock's expression, what little there was of it. _Damn control must be a reflex._ Spock was hardly back in school long enough to have aced the whole course already. 

"It is not necessary for you to tell me about them. It is necessary only that you tell me that they exist." 

"Maybe I _want_ to tell you about them," McCoy persisted, driven. "How about this? Your dad told you the legend of the fal-tor-pan when the two of you were up there in the voodoo chamber, and you thought it was a great story even if it wasn't logical. And your mother used to come and tuck you in at night when she thought you were asleep. And you sneaked in after your grandparents brought your mom some peppermint schnapps and _sampled_ it, Spock. Now, that wasn't a very nice thing for a good little Vulcan boy--" 

"You are exhausting yourself," Spock interrupted without raising his voice. "I suggest that you sit down--" He extinguished the torch and sat down himself, cross-legged, the torch and the tricorder in his lap. "And rest," he finished. And waited. 

McCoy made two or three aimless, inarticulate gestures and then let his arms fall to his sides. He was getting dizzy again. Resigned for the moment, he approached the ship and collapsed against it, sliding down to a sitting position. "What is the issue, then?" he asked, and closed his eyes, feeling the sweat run down his body like a sticky bath. 

"Dependency." 

He closed his eyes tighter to keep the tears from joining the sweat. When he could speak again, he whispered, "Blast your Vulcan hide." After a time, he said, "Scotty was right there too, outside the radiation chamber. Why didn't you give it to him?" 

"That never occurred to me." 

The tears and the dizziness faded as McCoy contemplated the implications of that statement, voiced without expression but somehow not without emotion. If he had been asked to identify the emotion, he would have called it tenderness. 

"What was it," Spock asked then, "that triggered the memory of the peppermint schnapps?" 

"Chekov got some at Con Tower. They were out of vodka." When Spock declined comment, McCoy rolled his head back and forth against the hull. "I only had one. Getting bombed out of my mind won't help if I'm already out of it." 

"You exaggerate." 

"Don't I wish." 

"Has it occurred to you that none of these memories involves anything that would embarrass either of us?" 

McCoy's eyes flew open, and he turned his head against the hull to look at Spock. "Kid's stuff," he murmured. "They're all little boy stuff." Little human boy stuff. Could Spock have wanted-- 

"They are from far in the past, not held by me at the conscious level. Perhaps...." His voice died away. 

McCoy hesitated, torn. A gift from the unconscious? But he wasn't able to accept that gift. And as long as Spock didn't know.... "You mean T'Lar couldn't reach them? Didn't know they were there?" 

"Perhaps," said Spock, "she did not wish to know." The right eyebrow elevated fractionally. 

"Some surgical technique," McCoy growled. "Come on, Spock. Don't make a production out of it. I'm deigning." Again Spock's hand carried away the memories, and again it was as though their keeper had read them somewhere rather than experienced them himself. 

Yet this time a lingering sense of loss remained, reflecting the tone of Spock's voice when he said, _That never occurred to me._

  
As McCoy had anticipated, the captain of the _Bounty_ was his first heat-exhaustion patient. The only unanticipated aspect of it was that it took Jim two and a half months to overstep. Maybe it happened because he was feeling better, McCoy reflected as he checked out Kirk, who, at mid-shift, was sleeping like a baby in his own room in the bubble. It was obvious that Jim had missed Spock on the shakedown cruise, but he had lost his iron-grip demeanor before lift-off, and space was space. When Sulu returned from a post-shakedown shopping spree with two foils and two masks, the admiral had insisted on a match at sunset, and had been giving Sulu more than he bargained for until Jim suddenly stopped sweating. Even he knew what that meant, and McCoy had had little difficulty in persuading him to strip to his briefs and lie down. Now, an hour and a half later, the admiral was sweating profusely but showed no sign of awakening. 

McCoy had waved out the light and was about to leave the room when a tap on the door frame made him turn. Sulu, cool and slicked down in a clean work tunic, was looking across the room at the admiral. 

"How is he?" Sulu whispered over the large plant in his arms, and McCoy thought he heard a small voice echo, "Is he?" 

"He's fi-- what the hell?" Whispering too, McCoy frowned at the plant, which had two clawed appendages sticking up from its trunk. "Hell?" whispered the plant, and Sulu grinned. 

"I brought him a present," he said, and winked. He tiptoed across the floor and set the plant on the bedside table. "Pavel says her name is Catherine the Great." 

"Great," murmured Catherine, flexing her claws. But McCoy's grin froze. In an instant, he was years away in time but only three kilometers in distance.... 

_T'Sal looked like a cactus--monolithic, gray-green entity with a spiked, domed head, nodding beside the garden steps as she sang to the heartsick little boy who had just lost his sehlat to a Le-matya's poison. Her voice was the voice of a wind-chime in a gentle breeze; there were no words to her song, but she needed none. Soothed and comforted, the little boy sat beside her in the first light of morning, still in his sleeping robe--alone, but for the moment no longer lonely...._

"Dr. McCoy?" Sulu was looking at him hard as he moved back toward the doorway. 

"She's...great," McCoy managed, and reinstated his grin when Catherine echoed "She's great" from the bedside table. Then he realized belatedly that he and Sulu had not been whispering during their last exchange, for Catherine was no longer whispering either. 

The admiral's eyes opened and immediately focused on McCoy. "What time is it?" he demanded, and McCoy wondered if the man ever woke up groggy like the rest of the human race. 

"It's a little after 2100. Now, Jim--" 

"Why the hell didn't you wake me up?" Jim threw back the sheet and was in the act of swinging his legs over the edge of the bed when Catherine barked, "Wake me up?" from the bedside table. 

Jim turned slowly to look at her, said "Jesus" very much under his breath, turned his unfolding grin on Sulu and mouthed silently, "On report, mister." 

"Don't you like her, Admiral?" Sulu inquired innocently. 

"Love 'er," sighed the admiral, rolling his eyes, reaching for his pants, and realizing too late what he had done. 

"Lover," murmured Catherine. 

Forgetting his pants, the still grinning but slightly red-faced admiral picked up Catherine rather gingerly and deposited her, claws waving, in the arms of the now inarticulate Sulu. "Shuddup," he mouthed at McCoy, who was similarly speechless with laughter. "Brig," he mouthed at Sulu. "Kitchen table." Sulu nodded and departed, and Kirk turned again to McCoy. "Was this your brilliant idea?" But he was still grinning. 

"No, sir," said the doctor. "But Admiral, sir, I'd give a lot if it had been, sir." 

  


At breakfast, there was a long, good-natured argument about whether what they were eating was breakfast or supper. McCoy listened with half an ear, his gaze continually returning to Catherine, who had folded her appendages and apparently gone to sleep, plant-fashion, after consuming a variety of Vulcan insect life. She had triggered the first of Spock's memories to come to him since the evening beside the _Bounty_ , and that had been well over a month ago. But this one was different--not a human child's memory, but a Vulcan child's. And yet there was something touchingly human about the little boy being sung to by his only friend. Musing, he realized that Spock was watching him. 

Meeting Spock's gaze, he shrugged and looked away. Yet he felt Spock's eyes on him intermittently throughout the rest of the meal, and when they had finished, Spock remained seated, elbow on the table, hand curled loosely against his mouth. Whenever McCoy looked at him he was looking back, engendering in McCoy a mixture of gratitude and resentment. How did he know so damn much about everybody? But it wasn't everybody Spock was watching. It was McCoy, Leonard H., son of David. 

When only Jim remained at the table with them, Kirk looked at Spock, smiled a little and raised his eyebrows; Spock often stayed for breakfast, but it was not his custom to linger at the table before going home. Spock simply looked back at his captain, and after a moment Jim rose and stretched, nodding toward Catherine. "She stays here, Doctor, or your ass is grass. Pass it on." When McCoy nodded, grinning reminiscently, Kirk took his leave. 

"Coffee?" McCoy asked to fill the silence, never expecting Spock to agree. 

"If you wish." 

Startled, McCoy asked, "Black?" 

"Weak." 

"Outside?" 

Spock nodded. _Accommodating bastard._ McCoy ordered two coffees, one black, one weak, from the dispenser, and they went out to sit on the door sill. It was the end of winter, and the ground on which Spock had lain that first evening was dusted with green, enriched by seasonal rains. In another month, McCoy supposed, it would be baked rock again. Some spring. Whole world was upside down and ass-backwards. Plants talking and singing.... "It's T'Sal," he said. "When she sang to you after I-Chaya died." 

"I surmised as much." 

"Goddammit, Spock! What kind of a mind-reader--" 

"The parrot plant, Doctor. It amuses the others, but it disturbs you. In your present situation, the connection was not difficult to come by." 

"All right." They were silent, looking up the steps of Mount Seleya toward the temple, now invisible around a turn of old-wood rock. This morning the sky was peach-colored as it had been that first morning, but the misty, undefined edges of things were clear and sharp, and McCoy imagined that there was a faint scent of spring in the air. "Do you remember when we carried you off the ship that night?" 

"No." 

McCoy licked his lips. "Do you remember anything that happened on the ship after you and Jim beamed up?" 

"No." 

McCoy suppressed a sigh of relief. _I'm gonna tell you something I never thought I'd hear myself say. I've missed you. I don't know if I could stand to lose you again._ Hell of a thing to have to live down, that. And yet.... 

"I want to keep it," he said. Spock turned to look at him, but McCoy kept his eyes on his coffee. "T'Sal. Your memory. I want to keep it. Is that--um--allowed?" 

"There is no precedent," Spock said softly. "Why do you wish to keep this memory?" 

McCoy looked up then, and realizing that Spock expected some sort of elaborate justification, smiled at the thought that he was not going to get it. 

"I like it," he said. 

Spock studied him for a long moment. Then: "Very well." 

"Just like that?" 

"It is mine to give." 

After a moment, McCoy felt compelled to look away from that dark, intent gaze. They were silent for a time, and then McCoy said, "I have to ask you something. You got anything o' mine between those pointed ears of yours?" 

"'I remember remembering,'" Spock quoted him back at himself. "'But I can't remember _it_ anymore.'" 

"Figures. What was it?" 

"You were at summer camp." Western Wisconsin. Ol' Miss, rolling brown and familiar at the foot of the bluffs, but with the smell of evergreens in the air and the dry needles like a prickly carpet under bare feet. "There were offworld children there, a Tellarite among them. The majority were human children like yourself. The other children feared the Tellarite, and their fear took the form of baiting in which you refused to participate. You were ostracized because of this, and became the Tellarite's friend. Eventually he attacked three human boys who were baiting him as though he were an animal at bay, and you fought at his side. No one ever baited him again." 

"We beat the shit out of 'em," said McCoy dreamily. _So that was my gift. Use it in good health, Spock._ "Isn't it about time you were getting home?" he asked, and took Spock's half empty cup. 

"Perhaps." They rose, but Spock hesitated, frowning. Somebody's privacy at stake, no doubt. "Doctor, would it be appropriate for you to repeat last evening's conversation involving yourself, Mr. Sulu, the captain, and the parrot plant? The fragments I gleaned at breakfast were...most intriguing." 

"Mr. Spock--" Grinning in anticipation, the keeper of the katra returned the coffee cup to its owner and made a sweeping gesture toward the vacated door sill. "Be my guest."


	13. L'nara

### L'nara  


  
For Saavik, Cauldron had all of Vulcan's drawbacks and none of its advantages. Since the northern hemisphere was a cracked and quaking ocean of unstable plutons and plateaus, the Starfleet Corps of Engineers had decided that the future dilithium mining operation for which the SCE were directed to tunnel out an underground headquarters would be built in the southern hemisphere; with a planet this rich in ore, it didn't matter a hell of a lot where you dug for it, they reasoned. Unfortunately, it was summer in the southern hemisphere, and the sun blazed all day and smouldered on one horizon or the other for most of the night. The three-person fault survey team wore protective gear sealed against the elements, including helmets and face plates. One could, with determined effort, call oneself comfortable in them, and in deference to the two humans on the team, the work day was only nine hours. But that was precisely the difficulty. That left twelve point three Standard hours each day in which one was constrained to find something to do to alleviate the most acute case of boredom that one had ever had the misfortune to contract. 

The team's living quarters consisted of four rockbound rooms just below the surface of the south pole--a common room and three bedrooms, each a cube precisely three point six nine four meters on a side. The ventilation system was adequate for life support, but the air tasted of dust and smelled of scorched rock. The best that could be said for the suite was that, unlike the caves Saavik had lived in as a child, the rooms were dry and warm. Too warm, obviously, for her human colleagues. 

Between the evening meal and bedtime, Lieutenant Commander Elena Arenales would sit, sallow and solidly muscled, sweating and fanning herself with a Japanese fan held in her newly grafted hand, reading tapes on geological exploration and gourmet cooking, periodically sighing, blowing out her breath, and remarking, "Jeez, it's hot in here" to no one in particular. Ensign Michael Morgan seemed less affected by the ambience; he had brought his guitar with him to Cauldron and he played it incessantly all evening, sang along occasionally in a melancholy baritone that matched his thin, melancholy face, and read nothing. His spare frame seemed most comfortable when he slid down on his spine and stretched his long legs under the table, and he was equally laconic about keeping his heavy growth of dark beard under control. The best that could be said for the two of them was that when they became intoxicated together one evening, they were both reasonably restrained about it. Starfleet had promised the team that they would be provided with suitable diversion, including hologames and a library of tapes that presumably exceeded Arenales' private collection in scope and variety. The promise was never kept. The team, Arenales speculated, had fallen into a crack in the Starfleet bureaucracy. The only thing that made their collective existence bearable was that most evenings they were all too tired to do much but count the days until they would be free to go their separate ways. 

Saavik, who had spent the last dozen years warily skirting the edges of whatever group she was supposedly a part of, made no effort at first to socialize. But after three point seven days of relative isolation, she was snapped abruptly out of it when Arenales demanded one evening: "Mister Saavik, you got something against humans, or is this just your own sweet self you're treating us to?" 

Morgan had discovered a forgotten deck of cards in his duffle bag, and he and Arenales had been in the midst of a game of Hearts when Saavik had risen to go to her room. She turned, controlling the impulse to stiffen with unspoken resistance to an obvious overture of friendship. Arenales wore an amiable grin, and Morgan's sad blue eyes smiled faintly. 

"I do not wish to intrude on your game." Saavik answered with the first excuse that came to mind. "Request permission to go to my room, sir." 

"The hell you will." Still grinning, Arenales tapped her cards on the table and jerked her head toward Saavik's empty chair. "Permission denied. C'mere and sit down." 

Saavik complied without further resistance. She knew that the three of them could not remain a team if there was no rapport among them, and humans obviously required a semblance of conviviality, however forced, to sustain rapport. So far they had worked well together, and she had no desire to disturb the equilibrium of the team. 

"Now." Arenales set her cards aside. "We can spend two months wondering why anybody else would volunteer to work themselves to exhaustion on a shitty assignment like this, or we can satisfy each other's curiosity and save some time." She held up the grafted hand, a dark line still visibly circling her lower arm. "This happened three weeks ago. The rest of the team died." Her black eyes were bright, intent, and suddenly red-rimmed. "I wasn't in charge and it wasn't my fault. But try to tell yourself." She turned to Morgan, blinking rapidly. "Mike?" 

"My wife was gone when I got home this time," Morgan answered, reaching for his guitar. His eyes were averted, his voice husky. "She took the kids with her. I don't even know where they are." Head bent, hugging the guitar, he strummed it softly. 

"Saavik?" 

"I cannot tell you." The bizarre unreality of the situation kept Saavik's affronted privacy at bay, and Elena Arenales' honesty touched the hidden part of her being that would never be Vulcan. But she knew that confiding in anyone, no matter how well-intentioned, would give her no relief, even if the confidante were capable of understanding the extent of her betrayal of Spock's expectations of her. "It is not the Vulcan way." That, at least, she could still do for him. 

They were both looking at her now, Arenales with an intent, probing gaze and Morgan with bewildered compassion. Often she had wondered how it could be that humans read her so easily when she tried so hard to control the visible expression of emotion. 

"Okay," Arenales said finally. "If you change your mind, nobody's going anyplace for the duration. Just give a holler." She swept up the pack of cards and handed them to Saavik. "Deal." 

"I am not well-versed--" 

"Deal," said Arenales, smiling again. "And quit making a career out of being perfect. That gets old fast." Saavik's eyebrows rose. "You're a royal pain in the ass, Mister Saavik," Arenales elaborated obligingly. "Deal, will you?" 

She dealt. An hour later, they had switched to poker, and an hour after that, Saavik had cleaned the other two out. Or so they put it. 

For the first time since their arrival on Cauldron, she fell asleep immediately rather than lying exhausted but tense until her exhaustion defeated her tension. But she woke before the work day began, and lay remembering how Arenales had described her: making a career out of being perfect. On Hellguard, she had always been one of the leaders, protecting the younger children, settling disputes among the older ones, daring to lead an attack on a large predator when there was need of food for the group. But on Vulcan, she had become a follower. When Spock had singled her out and brought her home to his world, she had vowed not to disappoint him. That meant doing everything as close to perfectly as possible, never letting him or anyone else know that she sometimes felt, in that hidden part of her that would never be Vulcan, that her unsmiling, often rigid Vulcan teachers were...a royal pain in the ass. 

She closed her eyes, controlling the rebellion away. The entire planet had been at peace for centuries, and Surak and his philosophy had accomplished that feat with a race of barbarians. But even that was unimportant beside the trust and confidence that her mentor had given her. And how had she repaid it? By rebelling. Again. But this time it could have cost him his life. 

She had been all too aware that the Klingons were already on the planet when she stroked and comforted that miserable, shivering boy. Physiologically, he was dominantly Vulcan. The probability that her actions would bring on the blood fever had been well over 80 percent. Had she triggered plak tow in him, Kruge and his crew would have slaughtered him like an animal. And they would have laughed at him. 

Still lying on her back, she felt the tears come and pressed her hands to her face. "The finger touch wasn't enough," she whispered. "I _knew_ it wasn't enough. He's half _human_." Yet the cost could have been his life, and his honor. And he would know that. Now. 

She went over it again in her mind, perhaps for the hundredth time. What had her alternatives been? _It was a test of character,_ an ironic voice whispered. Rewrite this one, Admiral. Damn. He couldn't always be right. 

Could he? 

  
In the days that followed, the three of them realized that the team they thought they were was a team becoming, not a _fait accompli_. Arenales drove them as she drove herself, keeping them in their suits all day except for a short break at high noon. Morgan complained that his suit itched, and Saavik informed her superior officer that her actions were not logical. There were arguments at the dinner table, arguments over their intercoms. Saavik came to perceive that the three of them actually did not like each other very much, and probably would never have chosen one another as friends. Arenales had an explosive temper, Morgan loved to sulk when he didn't get his way, and Saavik irritated them both a great deal of the time. But all three of them enjoyed the painstaking work involved in mapping hundreds of fault lines against the day when the dilithium mining operation would begin on Cauldron and their maps would save lives. Had they been trapped there together for an indefinite period, she knew that the team could not have survived as a team. But as Arenales was overly fond of repeating, for two months a person could stand anything. 

In spite of his tendency to sulk, Morgan was a more congenial companion than Arenales was, and Saavik learned to enjoy the folk songs he sang to the accompaniment of his guitar. As their time on Cauldron turned the corner and moved back toward the date of their departure, he taught her to play simple tunes on the instrument and shared his private treasury of chocolate with her. And, eventually, he shared his bed. 

Like the chocolate, the experience was surprisingly pleasant. She had had limited sexual contact with human males, but even that had taught her that her natural Romulan drive for satisfaction was usually perceived by them as predatory. Not so with Michael Morgan. His needs were not complex, and his psyche apparently not easily damaged. As they lay together on his bed, he turned his head to smile lazily at her. 

"Real ball o' fire, aren'tcha?" 

"Does that please you?" she asked, still mildly incredulous. 

"I'm not proud." He winked, rolled over and hid his face in his arms. By the time she was dressed and ready to leave the room, he had turned on his back again and was snoring. 

The following evening, a poker game kept the three of them up longer than usual. Tired after a long day in the field, Saavik wished her companions goodnight and went to her room. Waving on the light, she turned to close the door and found Morgan standing in it, leaning against the frame. 

"Game for a rematch?" he asked, his blue eyes holding hers. Confident, expecting agreement, he straightened up and began to move into the room. 

"No," she said, controlling her voice to hide the revulsion she felt as he invaded her space unasked. 

He stopped dead, a slow flush creeping into his cheeks. Still at the table in the room outside, Arenales said quietly, "Oh, shit." Then Morgan reached for the bedroom door and moved forward, drawing it closed after him. 

"This is my room, Morgan," Saavik said evenly, shifting her stance to improve her balance. "I did not invite you here. Please leave." 

Standing sideways in the doorway, Morgan flicked a glance at Arenales, now on her feet, and then back at Saavik. Then he turned and walked rapidly to his own room, where he slammed the door just as Arenales advanced on Saavik, livid. 

"Two more weeks!" she shouted, jabbing the air with two fingers. "Two more weeks and we'd've been done and out of here, and you guys had to go and fuck up my first command." 

"This is _my_ room-- 

" _Tell_ me about it!" Arenales began to pace. 

"What was my alternative?" Saavik asked, confused by the violence of the outburst. "If you can suggest how I might otherwise have handled the situation--" 

"'If you can suggest how I might otherwise have handled the situation,'" Arenales sneered, still pacing, and then wheeled to face Saavik again. "Don't you goddamn Vulcans ever _quit_? No, _Mister_ Saavik, I can't suggest how you might otherwise have handled the situation. That's the fucking _problem_!" She waved both hands at Saavik. "Go t'bed! Go! Shut up! Go!" And she grabbed the bedroom door and slammed it in Saavik's face. 

In the morning, Saavik and Morgan entered the common room almost simultaneously. Arenales rose from the table where she had apparently been drinking coffee for some time and faced them both. 

"Are you two still going to be able to work as a team?" she demanded. "Or do I knock your heads together first?" 

"Don't make a federal case out of it, El," Morgan muttered, scowling. 

" _Are_ you?" 

"Yes, sir," said Saavik. 

After a moment, Morgan echoed sullenly, "Yes, sir." 

"Fine," said Arenales. "Let's go to work, then." 

They worked all day in relative silence and with surprising efficiency. Morgan sulked venomously, but Arenales displayed no further outbursts of temper. After supper, Arenales disappeared into her room without explanation, leaving the other two at the table alone. 

"So what's your problem, Mister Saavik?" Morgan asked finally. "You into one-night stands or something?" 

"You invaded my room. I did not invite you there." 

"Christ, you always sound like a Vulcan." 

"I have no wish to offend you, Morgan." 

He snorted. "Thanks a helluva lot. You always so formal after a roll in the hay?" 

_Roll_ , she thought. _In the hay. Fascinating._ "What should I have done?" she asked, genuinely curious as to how he would answer. 

"You could've said you had a headache," he mumbled. "Or something." 

"I did not have a--" 

"Ah--forget it." He rose, scowling again, and retired to his room, slamming the door only a little less violently than he had the night before. 

Saavik remained at the table, pondering hopelessly. "I don't believe in the no-win scenario," James Kirk had said. And yet it existed. Her Vulcan instructors had taught her that logic could solve every problem, and yet it could not. Most interesting of all was the fact that she had not been rebelling against the Vulcan way when she declined to allow Michael Morgan into her bedroom. There had simply been no alternative if she were to preserve her own integrity. 

As a Vulcan? As a Romulan? As a Starfleet officer? 

No. As Saavikam--the name that only one person in the universe still remembered was hers. He had asked so little of her.... 

_He asked much_ , said that other voice within her. _Perhaps too much._

"It was no more than he asked of himself," she said aloud, and the inner voice was silent. 

  
Time passed, and the _Shepard_ beamed them aboard on schedule. In the interim, the three of them had had virtually no conversation other than the necessary exchanges related to their work. There were no more poker games. Arenales read her tapes in the evenings and did not comment on the temperature. Morgan got drunk two nights in succession, and there was a brief, unpleasant intercom argument the following day when Arenales ordered him to stay sober for the rest of the mission after she and Saavik had spent the better part of an hour rescuing him from a crevasse he had fallen into, landing on a narrow ledge barely ten meters above a river of boiling lava. They had completed their maps, but barely. After two months together in cramped quarters, they knew one another only a little better than they had the first night they played cards together, and there was little doubt in Saavik's mind that they would never see each other again. 

As the three of them materialized in the transporter terminal on Starbase Vulcan, Saavik turned to Morgan, whose pad was next to hers, and said, "Goodbye, Michael." 

In the act of adjusting the strap of his duffle bag on his shoulder, he paused and met her gaze. His eyes were angry slits above a three-day growth of beard. "You gotta be kidding," he growled, yanked the strap higher, and half turned toward Arenales. "Seeya 'round, Commander," he said without looking directly at her, and strode away. 

Saavik looked at Arenales, who grimaced. "Some team I built." She grinned crookedly and waggled one finger at Saavik as she moved past her to follow Morgan out of the terminal. "Luck." The word was tossed over her shoulder, and she continued on out the door without looking back. 

  
A few days before the _Bounty_ left Vulcan for its shakedown cruise, Jill Halsted returned for winter break. It was Christmas time in San Francisco when she left, and Vulcan was more like Los Angeles in the summer. But she did not miss Christmas, since she had grown up in Sarek and Amanda's home on Vulcan, where the holiday was not celebrated. And with everybody talking general court for J.T. and his crew, she did not miss being at HQ at all. 

While her mother was helping her unpack, she asked, "Where's Saavik? There's something I want to do while I'm here, and I need somebody who's kylh to work with me on it. I tried with some people at PREPDIV, but they all listen to animals as though they expected them to talk in words. Out loud, even." 

Mother frowned a little. "Is Saavik kylh?" 

"Uh-huh. She was the one who had me tested last year." 

"I didn't know you knew her that well." 

"She was one of my instructors." 

"I know, but I thought her specialty was geology." 

"Well--we had a sort of a fight, and that's how we got to know each other." 

"What kind of a fight," Mother asked, "is a 'sort of a fight'?" 

"There was this clique," Jill explained, resigned. "They liked to try to make her look foolish in class, because she doesn't know all the English idioms. I butted in, and she got mad because she felt like she didn't need any help, and I smarted off when she yelled at me--" 

"In _class_?" 

"No, no. This was after class. Anyway, I straightened her out, and we got to be friends. Sort of. I think." 

Mother nodded, smiling. "She yelled at you, and then you straightened her out, and then you got to be friends. Sort of." 

"Uh-huh. Is she at TOQ?" 

"She might be. She's been on a temporary assignment on Cauldron, but she should be back by now." 

  
Walking alone one morning, on her way to visit the Federation School for Offworld Children that she had attended before she went to PREPDIV, Jill detoured to pass the plateau halfway up Mount Seleya that was the resting place of the _Bounty_ during her refit. It was empty and hard in the morning sun, with one large discolored spot in the middle of it. The deserted bubble sat on the edge of the clearing. Even empty, it looked much too small for so many people to be living there. She went in and toured the office and the food-service area, feeling more depressed by the minute. She did not go into the bedrooms, but the doors were all open, and she could see that there were few personal possessions there. Like being in prison, she thought, and then put the thought away. Time enough to think about it if it happened. As long as J.T. wasn't scared, she would try not to be. 

When she came again to the outside door, Saavik was standing in the middle of the flat landing field, looking up at Seleya. She wore a Vulcan tunic and trousers, with her hair down her back and her crossed arms hidden in the loose folds of her sleeves. She looked...alone, Jill thought. In fact, she had never seen anybody look as alone as Saavik looked at that moment. 

"Good morning, Mister Saavik." 

Saavik turned quickly. Thought nobody was here, Jill surmised. But why should it disturb her to think that the crew might be back? 

"Good morning, Mister Halsted." Speculative, now. But pleased. Definitely pleased. "Ah, yes. Christmas in San Francisco, is it not?" 

"Uh-huh. Do you have a minute?" Saavik's eyebrows rose, but she was smiling a little. "Okay. About ten minutes. I want to talk to you about something I'm working on." Curiosity. And she was pleased. That was nice. Jill gestured behind her. "You want to have a cup of tea or something?" 

Saavik cycled tea, and Jill cycled a chocolate malt. When they were sitting at the small round table in the food-service area, she said, "I hear you've been on assignment to Cauldron. How was it?" 

"It was...interesting." 

"You want to talk about it?" 

For a moment she thought it was the wrong thing to ask. Saavik frowned and looked down at her cup, but Jill made herself keep quiet. She had found that if you screwed up, it was usually best to keep quiet until you found out how badly you'd screwed up. She waited, and finally Saavik looked up again and surprised her completely. 

"Yes," she said, and began to talk. 

Jill had heard stories about isolated Starfleet scientific teams that got to hate each other before they finished their assignment. This didn't sound quite that bad, but Saavik seemed to think it was pretty bad. Jill couldn't quite understand why, because Saavik simply described what had happened without showing how she felt about it. It was hard to know why she wanted to talk about it at all if she was going to control her feelings like this. But Jill kept silent except for an occasional question, and at the end of the story, she said tentatively, "Sounds like the three of you had different agendas." 

"Agendas?" 

"He wanted sex, you wanted space, and Commander Whatshername--" 

"Arenales." 

"Commander Arenales wanted a cozy team. They just didn't fit together." 

"It should not have happened that way." Saavik was looking down at her cup again. "It should not have ended the way it did." 

"How else could it have ended?" 

Saavik was silent for a moment. When she looked up, sadness had come into her eyes. "We could have parted friends," she said. 

"Not unless you were three other people." Jill hesitated. "Um--you aren't blaming yourself for what happened, are you?" 

Saavik simply looked back at her. After a moment, she asked, "What was it you wished to speak to me about?" 

Jill opened her mouth and then closed it again. Three years at PREPDIV with the same Vulcan roommate had taught her to recognize warning signs when she was getting too close. T'Kama was doing a lot better now, but Saavik had probably never had a human roommate. 

"I need somebody kylh to help with an experiment. It's about the mandilla and how they herd. Are you off the duty roster now, or what?" 

"I am on leave." Saavik hesitated, and then went on. "I would be available for your project. Where will you be working?" 

"At home." 

Saavik nodded. "Yes," she said firmly. "I will help you in your work." 

"You don't sound too crazy about the idea." Again, Saavik simply looked back at her. Controlling again, Jill thought. Not a lot, but controlling. Afraid of something? But what? "Spock's fine," she continued, hoping that was it. "He didn't go on the shakedown, but he remembers everything now." 

"I am pleased that he has recovered fully. Growing from a small child to full adulthood in a few hours involves great pain." 

"From a _what_?" Jill gasped. "I thought the Genesis wave regenerated him...as is." 

"It did not. When we found him, he was a child of eight or nine years Terran." Saavik went on, explaining, describing, reliving. This time she did not control so obviously, and the story was a lot more interesting because of it. Watching and listening, Jill forgot the passing of time. How could he be whole? How could he be sane? Even a Vulcan-- 

"What about the Ti--" she began, and stopped, her hand to her mouth. 

"He experienced First Time," Saavik answered, and Jill remembered that it was all right for females to talk about the Time. Only the males were hung up on it. Mother had not said anything about First Time, but Saavik was controlling again, and now it was a lot. Not much fun, probably. She herself had had some recent experiences fending off seventeen-year-old males who supposedly had minds, and even that wasn't a whole lot of fun. You could tell guys like Morgan to stay out of your space, but.... 

"Did you have to have sex with him?" she asked sympathetically, thinking she was home free. And for the second time in her life, she watched Saavik virtually explode. 

"Gods, human! Can't you people imagine any problem that doesn't have something to do with 'having sex'?" 

Jill sighed. "Look, I don't want to fight with you again. I'm just sort of feeling my way, okay? My mother said it was all right for female Vulcans to talk about stuff like this. Is it because I'm not a Vulcan?" 

"No." Saavik was looking down now, tight-lipped as a shellmouth. 

"It's okay," Jill assured her. "You don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to. It's just that I thought we were friends. Sort of. I guess I shouldn't have thought that. But -- well, sometimes people are kind of dumb about other people's customs. I didn't mean to--" 

"I have no friends." 

Jill held her breath for a moment, and then she said, "That was Cauldron. This is here." 

In the dorm at PREPDIV, there was a human girl from Alpha C whose family belonged to the throwback Roman Catholic sect. When Margaret had described, during an all-nighter, what it was like to go to confession, Jill had imagined it must feel like Saavik obviously felt now. 

"I stroked his fingers with mine," she said miserably, unable to look up. "I held his hand all night." 

"He's half human. You played a hunch." 

"I played with his _life_. No l'nara would behave so." 

"What's a--" Jill began, and stopped again. Saavik was crying. 

Jill put her hand out, but Saavik snatched hers away. "I ask forgiveness for this emotional display," she whispered, brushing the tears from her cheeks as though they were filth. "I have shamed myself before thee." 

"That's a crock," said Jill. Then she remembered what she herself had just said about humans being dumb about other people's customs. But it was already too late. 

"I regret that I will not be able to assist you in your experiment with the mandilla," Saavik informed her, shellmouthed again. "My behavior today precludes any further association between us until I am able to control." 

"Who says?" 

"I say, humanchild." There was no contempt in Saavik's voice now. It was matter-of-fact. "I am unworthy to accept your gift, and the obligation is mine. It is the Vulcan way." 

"I'm not a child, Saavik." 

Saavik nodded. "Indeed. I ask forgiveness once again." And she turned and left the bubble, straight-backed, defiant, and alone. 

Jill considered kicking the table leg, and then considered kicking herself. _Tell Spock_ , she thought. Spock could take care of the whole mess in about ten seconds. But she knew better. Sometimes being a friend meant that you couldn't tell anybody, no matter how much you wanted to. 

She trashed the teacup and half a chocolate malt, and went on her way. Right now, there was really no place she wanted to go except someplace where she could soak her own stupid head, and there wasn't enough water in all of Vulcan to do the job right. 

  
After her encounter with Jill, Saavik returned to TOQ, exercised in the gym, and then went to her quarters to meditate. The trance state calmed her, and she remained in it for a long time. Returning to herself, she kept the meditation position and let her thoughts wander. 

All that was Vulcan in her still accused her of failing to resolve the situation on Cauldron in a logical manner. The spectre of James Kirk informed her that there was no such thing as a no-win scenario. Yet the voice that spoke most compellingly carried another message: _Not unless you were three other people._

_If only I had not wept in her presence._ And yet now, after the fact, she felt no shame. When, growing up, she had failed to follow the Vulcan way, Spock's answer had always been the same: _Try again. It is past. Begin again._

"But I should have been able to resolve the situation," she said aloud, thinking at once of the _Kobayashi Maru_ , and of Genesis, and of Cauldron. And memory answered inexorably: "There is no correct resolution." 

Not unless we were three other people. 

In memory, she stood in her bedroom on Cauldron with Morgan lounging and leering in the the doorway. 

No other way. Not unless _she_ were someone else. 

The boy Spock crouched by the fire on Genesis, teeth chattering, dark eyes pleading. No l'nara would behave so, she had told Jill. But no l'nara had ever faced a half human male bereft of his Vulcan memories. 

No other way. Not unless she were someone else--a fully indoctrinated, controlled Vulcan female who had never questioned the way of her people or fought for survival because she had none. That Vulcan female-- Saavik drew a deep breath and slowly let it out. That Vulcan female would have touched the tips of his fingers with the tips of hers--and wondered why he died anyway. 

She rose from the meditation position and went to the window. It was now late afternoon, and she knew that the _Bounty_ crew worked at night. But the _Bounty_ was on shakedown, and according to Jill, Spock had not gone with them. The probabilities were high that he was at home. 

Even Elena Arenales had understood that when one could not do otherwise, one did what one must. Could Spock do any less? 

  
As she climbed the hill toward the house of Sarek, Saavik controlled a resurgence of a resentment long forgotten. Disfranchised from birth, she had for a time after coming to Vulcan entertained a fantasy that Spock's family might invite her to visit them. It was not an altogether pleasant fantasy. The Father was a Vulcan ambassador at large, and her child's mind had placed Sarek, sight unseen, in the same category as the Vulcan functionaries on Hellguard who refused to acknowledge her existence. Spock's mother was human, and his bondmate as well. The child Saavik had met few humans, and those she had met disturbed her intensely by exhibiting many of the characteristics that she was trying to eradicate in herself. If she were itching with curiosity about the woman Spock had married, she did her best to control that affliction. But sometimes, when she was bored and alienated from her Vulcan fellow students, she had wondered if Spock's family had no curiosity about her. And when she was lonely, she had wondered why they had no compassion, and resented them all for failing to offer her something that she was not even sure she wanted. 

In recent years, she had all but forgotten that Spock had a family. But now, climbing past the garden that covered the hill above the retaining wall halfway up the slope, she remembered her resentment and was tempted to turn around and return to TOQ. She did not want to meet these people any more than they wanted to meet her. 

But it was time. If the Spock he had become could not accept the Saavik she had become, it was better that she discover that as soon as possible. 

She had reached the gate to the courtyard between the two wings of the house when she realized that someone was climbing the garden steps behind her. Too young to be Spock's mother, the woman wore a white tunic with the insignia of the Vulcan Science Academy on the left breast. When she sensed Saavik's presence, she looked up and slowed her pace, her expression the half smile, half frown that Saavik recognized as the typical human reaction to encountering a stranger in a familiar setting. The woman's long hair, wound at her neck, was brown rather than fair, and her eyes were blue. But her height, her steady, purposeful gait, and the alert curiosity in her expression reminded Saavik of Jill even though there was little physical resemblance between them. This, then, was the bondmate, Sarah Halsted. 

As Saavik thought the name, Sarah's pace slowed, and her expression changed. She was now neither smiling nor frowning, but simply gazing upward at the stranger, rapidly examining and discarding possibilities as to her identity. "Saavik?" she asked finally, and when Saavik nodded, Sarah checked fractionally and then began to walk again, her gaze still meeting Saavik's. As she cleared the steps, she said, in ritual Vulcan, "This house is honored by your presence." Moving a little closer, she added, still in Vulcan, "It pleases me to share my home with thee." 

_You are lying_ , Saavik thought. _Perhaps to yourself as well._ Aloud, she said, "It has not always been so." 

Sarah paused, and they regarded each other in silence for a moment. Then Sarah said quietly, "That's true. But it would have taken most humans about and hour and an half to get around to saying it." When Saavik lost control of her eyebrows, Sarah smiled faintly. "I was jealous of you. Maybe I still am. But I was a little girl without parents too, and I might have remembered what that's like." Tears came to her eyes. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry now that I didn't." 

"Thou must not weep before me," Saavik whispered, appalled--and then controlled a start of surprise. 

"Oh, hell, Saavik--don't Vulcan _me_!" Clasping her hands behind her neck, Sarah inclined her head backward against them and closed her eyes. "It couldn't hurt me to cry in front of somebody who's never going to use it against me!" 

Remembering her own _I have shamed myself before thee_ and Jill's _That's a crock_ , Saavik felt her own eyes sting. "That is logical," she acknowledged. 

"I doubt it, but I won't argue." Sarah opened her eyes, sighed, and lowered her hands. "Spock is with the healers this afternoon, but he should be here any minute. T'Ara," she continued, raising her voice slightly, "I want you to meet someone." She gestured toward the courtyard as Saavik turned to look in the same direction, and froze. 

A few meters inside the gate, a Vulcan child stood with a diapered infant slung on her hip. The hot breeze blew the little girl's long hair around her face and her tunic around her thin, bare legs. Her green eyes shifted apprehensively from her mother's face to Saavik's and then focused there, curiosity overcoming apprehension, but still mistrustful of the stranger who appeared to be responsible for the emotional charge that the child was obviously sensing. T'Ara moved closer, still scrutinizing Saavik while the rumpled baby yawned and grinned. But Saavik barely saw the baby. Except for her green eyes, his sister's face was the face of the child Saavik had found freezing to death in a snowstorm on Genesis. 

"I am Saavik," she whispered in Vulcan, moving to meet the child. _Can you speak?_ She barely caught the question in time to suppress it. 

"I am T'Ara," said T'Ara. "This is Shevek." 

"Hi!" said Shevek, and held out his arms. 

And Saavik thought: _This one has the eyes._

She took Shevek from his sister and sank down on the ground with the wriggling baby in her lap and T'Ara squatting protectively close by. Shevek pulled Saavik's hair, and when she did not object, he used it to try to pull himself up. 

"Up," he said. 

T'Ara reached out to untangle Shevek's fists. "I will take him," she offered. 

"No," Saavik whispered. "No." This one would have no pain, she thought, dazed with the joy of it. This one would grow as a child was meant to grow. 

"Up!" Shevek demanded, pulling hard on Saavik's hair. "Now!" 

"Take his hands," T'Ara instructed, and Saavik obeyed. "Pull," said T'Ara. "No. Up." Saavik pulled up, and Shevek stood in her lap, grinning. "He's squishing, Mother," T'Ara added. Then, to the startled Saavik: "She who is our sister is not Vulcan. She uses many picturesque expressions." 

"Indeed," said Saavik, and caught herself smiling. 

"He's fine," Sarah answered T'Ara's implied question. Saavik looked up at her, for the first time uncertain; she had taken the baby from his sister without a thought for his mother's wishes in the matter. Their gaze held, and Sarah said gently, in ritual Vulcan, "It pleases me." 

Reassured, Saavik turned her attention to Shevek once more. It was not until Spock came into the garden that she looked up. 

For nearly three months she had envisioned this meeting--dreading it for so long, and even now anticipating it with mixed feelings. And now that it was happening, she was sitting on the ground, her hair straggling over her shoulders, Shevek bouncing in her lap and clinging to both her hands. 

"Kroyka," she murmured, and Shevek was quiet, turning his head to look at his father. "T'Ara," she went on, "please take him now." When T'Ara complied, Saavik rose with as much dignity as she could salvage and moved to meet Spock at the gate. 

_He is at peace_ , she thought, as her gaze met his. No longer suffering, no longer struggling to remember. And different, somehow. A new Spock, perhaps, for a new Saavik. Smiling a little, she said in Vulcan, "I am Saavik. Can you speak?" 

His gaze holding hers, he raised his hand, and for a moment she thought he would touch her face as the child Spock had touched it on Genesis. Instead, he returned her smile and continued to raise his hand, keeping the first two fingers together long enough for everyone present to observe the silent, lifelong greeting of a Vulcan male to his l'nara. 

Then he spread his fingers in the conventional salute and said, in Vulcan, "Live long and prosper, Saavikam. It pleases me to share my home with thee." 

Saavik too raised her hand, paused with the first two fingers together, and then spread her fingers as Spock had done. 

"Peace and long life, Spock. It pleases me to see thee well." 

  
It was time for dinner, but Jill hoped that her mother would somehow know enough not to disturb her. She had coaxed the marked herd of mandilla to follow her home, and they stood around her now in an irregular circle while she, sweating a little in the slanting early evening sunlight, thought them into trusting her even further. Vulcan animals did not fear humanoids, but the mandilla startled as easily as their Terran counterparts both equine and avian. Three of them pawed the sandy soil behind and uphill from the house; a fourth rose and flew around the circle and then settled again to the ground, folding its wings at its sides. The other three switched their tails and snorted, eager to be off and flying again, their ears pointed forward toward Jill as though awaiting a signal that she was finished with them. 

Once _en rapport_ with an individual animal, she would always recognize its aura if it was nearby. But there were seven in the herd, and she had only recently made their acquaintance. If she were going to be able to study them during the rest of her time on Vulcan, she would have to spend time with them without being interrupted-- 

Someone came around the corner of the house, and the herd took off, their wings fanning the hot breeze. "Damn," Jill whispered, and turned to see Saavik watching her from the corner of the house. "Oh, hi. Uh. I mean...." Saavik? Here? After all that nonsense about the crying? 

"I ask forgiveness," Saavik said, watching the herd disappear over the hill. "You must teach me not to startle them if I am to be of assistance in your work." 

Jill rose, wiped her forehead and then her chin on her sleeve, and grinned. If somebody Vulcan trusted you when you'd seen her cry, she couldn't mind if you smiled at her. "We learn by doing," she said, and held out her hand. 

Saavik shook it, but now she was frowning a little, trying to get her mind around something again. "Do you know Admiral Kirk well?" she asked. 

"Uh-huh." Should have known better than to say something that J.T. liked to say. And being friends made you want to tell things. 

_Don't tell her_ , said a familiar voice deep inside. _She'll change._ One way or the other, everybody always changed as soon as they knew. But Saavik was here. After all that stuff about the crying, she was here. "He and my mother met each other before she met Spock." She was here, and she was trusting, and she was Saavik. "He's my father." 

Saavik went on looking at her, but she wasn't exactly staring. It was as though she were looking into mirrors within mirrors within mirrors, all of them somewhere behind her eyes. Finally she smiled a little, and nodded. 

"Indeed," she said with a small sigh. "That is logical too."


	14. Bondmate

  


# Bondmate

On that first evening, after leaving Spock on the _Bounty_ landing field with his crew mates, Sarah flew the aircar home and went straight to bed. Alone. But she was too emotionally exhausted to regret her solitude for more than a few seconds before sleep took her once more.

When she woke in the early morning, the feeling of unreality had returned to plague her, and for the first time she wondered if there might be something physically wrong with her. "I don't know how to be sick," she had told her cousin, Chris Jones, when tests had revealed the only serious illness she had ever experienced. "I never had the easy stuff to practice on." What does it feel like, she wondered as she rose and forced herself to go through her usual morning routines, to be really ill and not know it? _How do you tell?_

Before she left for the hospital, she performed a thorough scan with her medical tricorder, and the results were as she had anticipated: other than telltale indications of emotional stress, she was as healthy as she had ever been and physically rested from her second uninterrupted sleep in more than a week. The memory of the incident at the anti-grav tube entrance briefly engaged her attention, like an insistent small child pulling an adult's hand during a conversation. The image of juggler's balls burying the juggler at the bottom of the tube was still a vivid one. But she had been exhausted then, she reasoned. She was not exhausted now, and missing work was even more pointless than it had been when she was waiting for Jim and the others to bring Spock home. Now she was waiting for him to bring himself home....

But he was home. He had said it himself: "I _am_ home, Jim."

The stress indicator on her tricorder spiked and then subsided. Funny. She was lonely and aching for Spock's presence, but she knew that he would come to her soon, and leaving him with Jim had been her choice. Yet the indicator had spiked, and the chronometer at her bedside told her that she had been sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing with the tricorder whirring in her hands, for nearly four minutes. "I don't _do_ this," she said aloud, deactivated the tricorder, and went rapidly off to the hospital, pleased that once she got moving the feeling of unreality faded and then disappeared.

She held a departmental staff meeting that morning, and was surprised to note when it was over that she hadn't thought about Spock for an hour. After lunch, she took a nap on the couch in her office, which was the usual procedure for humans on staff; a ten-hour work day ten days in a row mandated certain adjustments to the work ethic that had pursued her race to the stars. In the afternoon, she held another meeting, infinitely more interesting than SemiTen Staff.

Since before Shevek's birth, the Research and Development division of Hybrid Obstetrics had been working on a modification of the prenatal regimen for a fetus that was not simply half Vulcan and half human, but the grandchild of three or four species that were genetically alien to one another. A second generation of hybrid offspring was being born, and the gestation of these children often caused unanticipated problems for them and their mothers. The fact that she and her son had almost failed to survive her pregnancy gave Sarah added interest in a project that had fascinated her from the beginning. In addition, her R & D team consisted of T'Shova, the only Vulcan female currently a member of the Hybrid Obstetrics department, and Zoe Keller's Dragon Lady, Kim Sung. With T'Shova's cool intensity to balance and channel her quicksilver energies, Kim was an invaluable asset to the H.O. department of which Sarah was chair.

"So we're ready for Phase Three," Kim said as she switched off her holoprojector in the center of the meeting table in Sarah's office. Her dark eyes were bright with anticipation, as were T'Shova's. But even for a Vulcan, T'Shova appeared a little subdued this afternoon. "All four survived in vitro, and now they come out of the AGU. Day after tomorrow, if T'Shova quits dragging her feet." She smiled at her partner, but T'Shova did not respond in kind, which was unusual. She and Kim worked well together, and T'Shova had eased up a great deal over the life of the project. But now her narrow brows drew together in an uncharacteristic Vulcan frown.

"I may not be on Vulcan on that day," she said matter-of-factly. "Saan will have need of me soon. The _New Intrepid_ is currently exploring the Rigel sector, and arrangements are pending for me to be transported there before his situation becomes critical."

There was a short silence, during which T'Shova looked at nobody and Sarah and Kim looked at one another with creditable imitations of Vulcan control. Then Kim took a deep breath and expelled it. "Well. That could be a problem."

"The subjects must be removed from the AGUs within three point six days if their current condition is to be maintained," T'Shova continued, and Kim nodded. "Perhaps tomorrow would be a better choice."

"Tomorrow it is," Kim agreed, her relief obvious. "You want to watch, boss?"

"Wouldn't miss it," Sarah assured her. She and Kim had written the grant proposal together before Sarah was promoted to department head and T'Shova was hired to work with Kim full time. Although T'Shova's skills were invaluable, the two humans would still often reminisce about the months during which they had done preliminary research together.

When the meeting ended, T'Shova left the office but Kim remained sitting opposite Sarah at the round table where they had held their meeting. It was now late in the afternoon, and the sun had rolled around to the other side of the building. But Sarah's partially darkened windows still admitted bright sunlight, and Kim had been squinting into it during the meeting. Now she moved to sit next to Sarah at the table. "So. What's got you so uptight?"

"Uptight?"

"You really gave it to Sorep in Staff this morning. I thought you were going to chop his ears off, and I bet he did too."

"Oh, Kim! He needs to be set straight when he gets on a Vulcan roll like that."

"I know. But not like you did it this morning. Are you sure it's such a good idea for Spock to be somewhere else right now?"

"It was our decision. His and mine. He needs to be with...them right now."

"His and yours."

"Mine, really. But he went along with it. It's where he wants to be right now."

"Okay." Kim nodded, her eyes still on Sarah's. "You want to talk about it?"

"Nothing to talk about. It'll work out."

"Okay," Kim said again, and rose. Research calling. She had that look in her eyes already. Whatever had been on her computer screen when she had had to stop for the meeting was sending her spirit a siren call. What would become of that woman if she were to be promoted into an administrative position? But she wouldn't be. Not Kim. If anyone tried, she would turn it down flat and be off to the lab without giving it a second thought. "Let me know if you change your mind." And she was out the door.

Sarah slept badly that night, dreaming dreams that she could not remember upon awakening. That too was odd; she always remembered her dreams. In the morning, she again experienced a transient disorientation, but again it passed until she and Zoe swam together in the hospital pool just before Zoe's evening shift began.

The exercise invigorated her at first, and she kept pace with Zoe lap after lap. But then she fell behind, pulled herself up on the side of the pool and sat there with her feet on the cool tiled ledge, watching Zoe finish her laps.

 _It's been two nights_ , she thought. _When will he come home? Why doesn't he come home?_ The rippling water stretched out before her, choppy where Zoe's steady strokes disturbed it, slap-slapping against the sides of the pool beneath Sarah. She barely saw the ripples, barely heard the slapping. They were somewhere else, not quite here....

Levering herself on the tile outcropping, Zoe sprang out of the water and twisted to a sitting position beside Sarah, wiping water out of her eyes and pushing her wet russet curls back from her face with both hands. "You don't look so good," she said.

"You're not looking at me."

"I got sensors." Zoe sniffed, blinked, leaned back and rested her weight on her hands, water drops still running down arms, neck, and the sides of her cheeks. "You sure it wouldn't be better if you stayed home for a couple days?"

"What would I do at home?" Except wait. And wait. "Besides, T'Shova did a Starfleet express to Rigel this afternoon. That leaves Kim without a partner unless I work with her tomorrow."

"Superdoc can't handle it alone?"

"Knock it off, Zoe." Appalled, Sarah heard the echo of her own voice come snapping back off the tiled walls. "I'm sorry. You're good for her. I don't know why I said that." She crossed her arms on her knees and hid her face in them.

"What are you burying, Sarah?"

 _The juggler. There's this juggler with too many balls to juggle and she's down there at the bottom of the--_ "It's...I don't know. If he'd just come ho-- I just want to see him, that's all."

"So go down there and see him."

"Up. The ship is on that plateau about halfway up--"

"Go. Now."

"Tomorrow."

"Now."

"He has to want me too, Zoe. Otherwise it's no good."

After a pause, Zoe said, "Tomorrow. No fail."

"All right," Sarah said finally. "Tomorrow."

  
That morning, Sarah had accepted Amanda's invitation to supper in the other wing. If Spock came home, he would know where they were, she told herself. There was no way he would turn around and go back to the ship just because nobody was home.

Not if he were himself. But... _He fades in and out._ What if he came home a child, and there was nobody there?

In the end, she left a note, and then spent the early part of the evening worrying about whether it might have slipped to the floor after she left.

"You should have left a note," Amanda whispered as they moved into the courtyard after supper.

"I did. I'm afraid it might have fallen on the floor."

"My dear, he couldn't be this close without knowing where you are."

"There's no link yet."

"Well, then go and see if your note fell on the floor."

The note had not fallen on the floor.

When Sarah came back out into the courtyard, Sarek was holding Shevek on his knee and Amanda was talking to the baby, who was bouncing and making imitative noises. Sarah watched them for a moment, and then glanced toward T'Ara and her bondmate, who were playing chess on the grass near the gate while I-Chaya watched intently, as though he were a third player. Sember had been omnipresent since T'Ara's recovery from her illness, and Sarah worried that the two of them might be excluding other friends in favor of one another's company. They had always been good friends, had shone with suitably restrained delight when Sember's parents--a Vulcan physician from Xenopathology and her human Starfleet husband stationed at Con Tower--had agreed to the bonding. But this was getting to be just a bit thick. She would have to do something about it. She would have to do something about Phase Three tomorrow. If she could manage to think about anything but when Spock would come home again, there were probably other things she would have to do something about.

Two nights and two days....

He was standing at the entrance of the courtyard, near where the two children were playing. They did not see him, so intent were they on their game. I-Chaya raised his head but made no sound. Sarah did not see what Spock's parents' reaction was. They were not in her line of vision as she ran.

When she could get her breath, she whispered, "You didn't cut your hair."

"I will if you wish it." The words were muffled against her, and she could feel his heart beating as though it would break free and soar away.

"Is your father watching us?"

"The probabilities are negligible. However--" He sighed, and she could feel his attention waver even without the link. "Who is that child with T'Ara?"

"Sember. Her bondmate." She took his face between her hands. "You've only met him once."

"Sember." He took her face in his hands as she held his. "Show me their bonding. Use your hands."

She held the picture in her mind--the two solemn children, green eyes and dark, touching and touched, parted from me and never parted.... And it was there. The link was there. His mind was there, shadowed now and in search of self, but there. He was there.

They both lowered their hands, whole again. Each encircled the other's waist with one arm, while their extended fingers met.

"Thank you, my wife," he said, his dark eyes shining.

"You are most welcome." She reached up and kissed his lips. Then, their hands joined palm to palm, they moved away from the gate together.

Sarek watched his son with some concern, for Spock had little to say and much to see. Watching Sarek watching Spock, Sarah wondered how long it would be before the father again broached the subject of the re-education of his son in the Vulcan way. Biding his time? But she could not worry about it tonight. Tonight, everything was right with the universe.

She met Spock's gaze and smiled, reaching for their link, wondering what he saw when he looked at her. Then she saw what he saw, and drew in every shield she possessed lest the other telepaths nearby perceive his naked need, and hers.

As though on cue, the first chill breeze of the desert night washed over them.

"I think I'll get my shawl." Sarah rose and made for her wing of the house, hoping that no one would notice how abrupt her departure had been. Indoors, she covered her burning face with her hands, shaken with silent laughter. "Oh, God," she murmured, "what a performance." She heard Spock's step behind her, and asked, "Did they all get the benefit of that?"

"No. You did well." She sensed confusion, and the same fierce longing that had demoralized her in the courtyard. "My wife, have I offended you?" Tender, confused, and for the first time tonight, unsure.

"No, no, _no_! But please don't show me your fantasies in public! I'm not a Vulcan!"

She felt him come near, felt his fingers touch her hair, barely brushing the surface, and yet sending a charge through her entire body.

"In private, then," he whispered.

"Yes. _Please_."

"I will make our excuses."

He slipped away, and she went on to the bedroom doorway and leaned back against the frame, her hands behind her, face tilted upwards, eyes closed. When he returned, she opened them to find him standing a few meters away in the half darkness. His hands, too, were behind his back.

"I told them you were tired," he said.

"I'm not," she whispered.

"Perhaps you will be."

He gathered her up in his arms, kicked the door closed and eased her down against it. Having seen his fantasy, she knew her part well, and stripped him even as he stripped her. Then he was against her, enfolding her, lifting her, within her, needing, wanting, but not yet thrusting. "Don't hold back!" she gasped, using the door for leverage to wind her legs around him. "Don't h--" But his mouth on hers silenced her even as his hands, behind and beneath her, pressed her closer to him and him deeper within her. The door against her back gave no quarter as he had known it would not, and now his hands were half between her and the door and she in his hands, between him and him, inside and out. Slight, slow, upward movements of his body sent hers melting and then exploding between him and him. Her head hit the door, but she barely felt it--only him, inside and outside, melting her and exploding her, thrusting, pulsing, plunging, drowning, rejoicing.

He eased her down until she was standing against the door, then slipped both his hands beneath her head, burying his fingers in her sweat-damp hair, exploring and caressing her scalp until it tingled. "No, my love," she sighed, "It didn't hurt a bit." And then she was laughing silently, her head pillowed in his hands, eyes closed, hugging him to her and laughing until she was weak and soft with laughter.

"Soft," he whispered, his lips caressing her throat. "So soft." But it was not her thought he was voicing, she knew, even though he was aware of it. A shiver of remembered pleasure passed between them, and then they were both shivering in earnest, the sweat cooling on their bodies. He lifted her again, carrying her to their bed where they pulled the covers back and slid beneath them, both of them with their teeth set to keep them from chattering. Gathering her close, he jerked the covers up and and tucked them around their necks.

"You didn't keep your promise," she murmured. "I'm not tired."

"Given the time, and the opportunity...."

A memory, standing alone, out of context: as she slept unaware, he lay beside her--awake, half hard, wanting her but unable to touch her. Then the memory was gone.

"What was that?" she asked, trying to keep from tensing in his arms. " _When_ was that?"

"I do not know. These things come to me. In hours, tomorrow, perhaps in two or three days, it will come back, and there will be more." He stroked her back until she relaxed again. "It is past, my Sarah. Am I that Spock now?"

She raised herself until she could see his face. "Do you remember ever asking me that before?"

"No. Does it matter?"

She shook her head and lay down against him once more.

Someone was moving around in the next room, Shevek's room. Amanda, she thought, putting the baby to bed.

"Will he need you during the night?" Spock asked.

"No." She smiled, cuddling closer. "He's a good Vulcan."

After a moment, he asked, "What is a good Vulcan?"

"I was just being funny about Shevek. A good Vulcan...." This was important. There were still great pools of untapped memories in his mind, as yet undisturbed, and she was not the one to disturb this one. Yet he needed an answer. She could feel him needing it, even as she had felt him needing her when they were pressed against the door and each other. But that image came between her and the answer he sought. In memory she heard herself gasping "Don't hold back!" And she knew that he now heard it too, again.

"What was it that disturbed you?" he asked.

"You were using the control mechanism to take the edge off, so you wouldn't get ahead of me."

"Have I done this before?"

"Yes."

Her forehead was against his cheek, and she could feel his smile even as she heard it in her mind. "My Sarah, we are hardly discussing a case of sensory deprivation."

"I know. That's why I've never said anything to you about it before."

"Then why now?"

"We have no idea what this whole experience has done to your biological clock. There might be some queueing up going on."

"This is not the Time," he said with no particular emphasis, and she realized that he was not disturbed by the reference. Had that been cultural conditioning? All of it? But that was not her concern at the moment.

"I know that too. But your human needs might not be the only -"

"They will suffice," he said, pushing the covers back and laying his body over hers. They made love again, slowly this time, each of them savoring the other. Afterwards she slept, and then woke to find that he had not been asleep. He had, of course, slept all day while she was working at the hospital. Something else she would have to do something about--what, she had no idea. With Phase Three starting.... But she would think about that later too.

They put on sleeping robes, wanting the windows open in spite of the chill, and lay back against their pillows and each other. Their newly re-established link had helped her to understand how few of his factual, scientific, and duty-related memories had returned, how long the road that lay ahead. But as the night wore on, he became increasingly able to describe aloud how far he had come along that road, even in so short a time.

"She did what was necessary," was his quiet, even proud assessment of Saavik's ministrations on Genesis. "I had no memories, conscious or unconscious. As l'nara, her only recourse was to soothe and comfort me as a human would comfort another human."

"Then why couldn't she look at you when you saw her last?"

"Sarah--" He sighed. "Perhaps I did my work too well with her. Or perhaps--perhaps I found her too soon. For me. I was...different then, was I not?" She nodded. "What she did was to vary the Vulcan ritual to accommodate a half human. It was logical."

"And compassionate."

"Indeed."

"But compassion wasn't part of the lesson," she mused sadly, and he sighed.

"Not as I remember it."

"So she feels as though she failed as a Vulcan."

"It would seem so." Sarah's mind was on other things, and she did not answer. "What is troubling you now?" he asked.

"You know." She looked down at their hands, clasped palm to palm on the coverlet between them. "Why didn't you ever ask me to invite her here?"

"That choice was yours. And my parents'."

"I talked your mother out of it," she said, still looking down. "I convinced her that Saavik wouldn't be able to handle the whole family en masse, that it would be too much for her."

"There was some truth in that."

"Oh, Spock--there's some truth in everything if you want it to be there." Still looking down at their hands, she forced herself to go on. "You and I weren't doing wonderfully right then, and I was jealous of her. I've seen her in your mind. She's beautiful."

"Parted from me and never parted...."

"I know. And I should have been able to remember what it's like to be a child with no parents. If you were most people, you'd be reminding me to remember right now, even though it's years too late."

"The past cannot be undone. Are you that Sarah now?"

"No."

"Then why?"

  
The sky was brightening and Sarah was beginning to fade before they came to the thing that troubled him most.

"They are uncomfortable in my presence," he said. "All of them, except perhaps McCoy. Now." A faint smile.

"He's finally got you where he wants you."

"Indeed." But his mind was elsewhere. "I have so many questions."

"Does that bother them?"

"It frightens them."

She nodded. "Mr. Spock always had all the answers. Now he has nothing but questions. Maybe Jim should talk to them about it."

He did not answer.

"Jim isn't afraid of you."

"No." He was silent again, and she waited out his silence. Then, finally: "Jim hurts." He pressed his lips together. "He has lost his ship, he has lost his son, and now he wants me at his side as though I had always been there, and he wants it...yesterday." Relieved, she saw a small, wry smile.

"That's not a reasonable expectation."

"He does not expect it, Sarah. He simply wants it."

"Get McCoy to talk to him, then."

Spock sighed. "McCoy has his own purgatories, and they are not self-made."

There were sounds from the next room once again, and Sarah got up. Could the day be beginning so soon? When she opened the door, T'Ara was already on her way out into the hall with Shevek on her hip. She turned, raised her eyebrows ( _It is logical, Mother_ ), and departed without a word. Smiling in spite of herself, Sarah stepped into her bedroom and closed the door again, only to find Spock standing at the window, looking out into the courtyard where the first light of dawn was gilding the fountain's highest plume.

"I remember now," he said, still facing the window. "It was when I came home human. I awakened afraid to love you again because I was not whole."

She stood still for a moment, and then asked softly, "Are you that Spock now?"

She moved toward him, unfastening her robe and letting it slip to the floor. He did the same, and then turned so that the dawnlight illuminated him too, and she drank in his beauty as he drank in hers--first with eyes only, then with eyes and touching hands, finally with flesh against flesh. "Lie with me naked," she whispered, and it was as though he never had, as though this were a new beginning far from new.

  
When it was full daylight, she said, "You kept your promise. I'm tired."

He was frowning a little as he raised himself and cupped her shoulders in his hands. "My day is ending, and yours is just beginning."

"My dearest love, I was a medical student once, remember? I have a prescription that can keep me going all day even without any sleep at all." He waited, concerned. "It's called adrenalin, and it's available in its natural form...." Smile spreading, she pushed him away a little. "Shall I show you where?"

"I think not." But the eyebrow was beginning to go. "Perhaps another time?"

  
She had taken a stim once, during her first year in medical school, before she realized that the physiological legacy of her nonhuman grandmother included the ability to function at top efficiency for several days without sleep. The way she felt today was a little like that, she thought--capable of flying out of the window and over the rooftops of ShiKahr and even over the mountains. In the morning, she accompanied the residents on grand rounds as she did once every tenday. Sorep did a fine job of answering their questions and pontificated only toward the end. She was proud of him and told him so--in a suitably oblique manner that pleased him without requiring that he tell her he was pleased. After lunch, she dutifully retired for her nap, expecting to sleep because of the nagging ache of fatigue in her arms and legs. She succeeded only in keeping her eyes closed for half an hour, and that barely. By the time she rose and went to participate with Kim in the first round of Phase Three, she had planned her speech to the board of directors, where she would appeal the following tenday for the funding of several innovative pieces of equipment. Later today, she would catch up on all her professional reading in T'Loreth's office, and then she would go home, and Spock would be there.

Together she and Kim prepared the initial injections for the four multiracial babies who had been the first subjects to survive the AGU after conception in vitro. This was Phase Three, the beginning of supportive treatment for the subjects, compensating for the trauma of being transferred so early in their gestation that the AGUs still could not fully compensate. All four were now out of the units, but barely--still on life support, untouched by humanoid hands, fed and medicated by means of waldoshots. They were also lethargic and unresponsive. But if Kim and T'Shova were right (and they had always been right before), Phase Three medication would produce a noticeable change for the better within hours, if not within minutes.

"You need to get back on the line once in a while, boss," Kim had said more than once. But it was clear to Sarah that this former peer was as delighted asshe that they were working together again. As project director, Sarah had been involved in every step of the work, as T'Loreth required. But being project director was one thing; being Kim's partner again for the fifteen days of T'Shova's round trip to Rigel was quite another.

Carefully checking one another's work, they prepared the shots for the four babies. Once Kim glanced up, but she said nothing. Then they took turns attaching the modified hypos to the waldoducts.

The first subject's color improved when the medication reached her bloodstream, but the tiny creature showed no other change. The second and third also showed improvement, and Sarah could feel the charge of excitement passing between her and her partner even before Kim spoke.

"I'm glad it's you," Kim said simply, and they smiled at each other. Then still high on adrenalin and renewed sisterhood, Sarah reached for the fourth hypomod, attached it to the intake duct, and was on the verge of depressing the injecter when Kim's hand clamped around her wrist.

Freezing, she raised her eyes to Kim's, and saw sheer horror there.

"Look at it," Kim whispered. "My God, Sarah--look what you're _doing_!"

And looking, Sarah saw that the hypomod was empty--a spare that they had requisitioned in case of malfunction. If Kim had not stayed her hand, she would have injected twenty-five cubic centimeters of Vulcan air into the bloodstream of an infant barely as long as her forearm.

"What is the _matter_ with you today?" Kim still whispered, but her voice filled the room, the city, all of Vulcan, the universe. "You act like you're spaced out, you got the dosage wrong on one of the hypos, and now...." Her voice trailed off. "You didn't get any sleep last night." It was not a question. "Did you take a stim this morning?"

"No," Sarah whispered. "It's-- I--" She could not think what it was she had been going to say, and after a moment, Kim turned and went back to her work.

Sarah stood unmoving while Kim replaced the hypomod and gave the fourth injection, then moved from one unit to the other, checking the occupants, her attention concentrated on what she was doing. Sarah concentrated on keeping her legs from shaking. It was a difficult task, but it was all she was capable of thinking about at the moment.

When Kim had finished, she walked back to her supervisor, and they faced one another--dark eyes and blue, both without expression. _We must look like a couple of Vulcans_ , Sarah thought, and said aloud, "That's right. It can't happen again, and it won't."

"What are you going to do to keep it from happening, Sarah?"

"I'm--" She tried to focus on the conversation, but all she could think of was the empty hypomod. "I don't know," she whispered. "Spock is working nights. They're all working nights. It's...too hot to work during the day." _Dear God, is this what they mean by crashing?_ Kim's face was clear enough, but the rest of the room shimmered and shifted, and now she could not keep her legs from shaking.

"Well, I think what you ought to do first is sit down." Kim found a chair and shoved it against Sarah's legs from behind. "Sit." When Sarah obeyed, Kim moved around to stand in front of her. "Want to put your head down for a minute?"

"I'm not faint. It's--" _I was flying. And now I'm floating. And when gravity kicks in--_

"You're going to have to work nights too, you know. You can't survive this unless you do."

"Department chairs work days," Sarah whispered.

"I work days," said Kim. "You can do most of the paperwork during your shift, and I'll be acting chair and run in place." She grimaced. "How do you like that? Dragon Lady as acting chair of H.O. at the V.S.A. Think I can handle it?"

All Sarah could manage to answer was, "Oh, Kim."

"Yeah. Well. T'Shova'll be back before we know it, and she can handle Phase Three for a while." Sarah shook her head, unable to speak. "Oh, yes," said Kim. "It's the only answer. Do you want to talk to T'Loreth now, or do you want to go home?"

"Meetings," said Sarah. "You'll have meetings every day."

Kim managed a faint grin. "Oh," she said, "I'll send Sorep to the meetings."

  
Fifteen minutes later, Sarah was sitting on the couch in T'Loreth's office--the same couch where she came so often at the end of the day to do her professional reading and absorb the calming essence of the Vulcan chief of staff. Here, she had planned as she lay on her couch with her mind racing, she would catch up on all the journals she had not been able to read while Spock's fate hung on the ingenuity, daring, and love of one James T. Kirk. At the thought, a poison that she had tasted only once before rose in her soul, but she suppressed it. She had just enough energy to get through the next ten minutes with no distractions.

In as few words as possible, she described the incident in the lab and its cause. "I'm going to work nights for the next three months," she finished, wondering how long it would be before edges of everything would begin to blur again. Not long enough, she knew, for her to argue with a Vulcan, let alone with T'Loreth. Shooting the moon was the only way, for whatever it was that had kept all the juggler's balls in the air these past days was almost gone. Her only safety net was seventeen years of friendship and mutual support. If that net did not hold.... "So I'm resigning as project director on the multiracial study. Kim's going to take over. She's also agreed to be acting chair of H.O. during that time. We'll both put in an extra half hour so that our shifts will overlap every morning. I'll be doing all the reports and the other paperwork at night."

T'Loreth simply looked at her for a long moment. Then she said, "Those are not interrogative statements."

"I've never played games with you."

T'Loreth nodded. "And if I decline to approve these changes?"

"As my immediate supervisor, you have that right."

"But you do not believe I will exercise it."

"No, I don't. You have nothing to gain and everything to lose. Kim is a brilliant research scientist, but she'd go out of her mind trying to run H.O. on a permanent basis. T'Shova's the same, and there's nobody else here, and that means you'd have to wear two hats until you find a replacement for me. I calculate the probabilities at something less than 10 percent that the transitory pleasure of showing me who's boss would be worth it to you. Besides, you know I already know."

"That," said T'Loreth expressionlessly, "is logical."

"I've had the best teacher on Vulcan."

T'Loreth inclined her head. "The obligation was mine," she said with a faint sigh.

Nodding, Sarah eased herself back on the couch until she was resting against the cushions, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes. Now, at last, her entire body trembled.

"It is also logical," T'Loreth continued, "that this accommodation to circumstance may cause you to resent Spock in time. Participation in Phase Three was important to you."

Sarah opened her eyes. "Resent?" she repeated. Who had been teaching whom?

T'Loreth shrugged. "If you do this for Spock--"

"I'm not doing it for Spock, T'Loreth. I'm doing it for me. Besides, I've been accommodating to circumstance for eleven years." Again, the taste of poison rose like fire, and again she fought it down. "By comparison, this is a piece o' cake."

  
 _I've been accommodating for eleven years._

She had forgotten to shade the windows in her office after her so-called nap, and the room swam red and gold before her eyes. _Hot_ , she thought, knowing it wasn't hot in the room. The heat was inside her. All those days of waiting, she had been cold all the time. Now something was smouldering, trying to burst into flame, and that smouldering was within her.

 _Wash my face. Just keep going. Get some water on my face and keep going and it'll pass._

The bathroom adjacent to her office had no window; the light would go on automatically as soon as she crossed the threshold. But on the threshold she halted, staring across the cubicle at the apparition she saw there.

The light was behind her, and in the mirror above the wash basin she saw her silhouette, holding onto the door frame. The apparition in the mirror had no face--only a dark shape vaguely human, clinging to the door frame as she had clung to the opening of the anti-grav tube sweating and trembling--just as she was sweating and trembling now. Closing her eyes for an instant as she had then, she stepped into the bathroom, activating the light.

"You look like a witch," she whispered, and her reflection grimaced. Something smouldering inside. _What are you burying, Sarah?_ She bent over the basin to wash her face, just as she had done here so many times before.

 _I've been accommodating for eleven years._ But it was more than eleven years that fell away now. In memory, she saw the young Sarah Halsted sitting on the floor with the young Jim Kirk, and heard young Sarah speak lightly, teasingly.

"You were all for my starting to rearrange my life around yours."

The poison overflowed, gravity kicked, and the juggler dropped all the balls.

"This isn't Jim's _fault_!" Her fists smacked her reflection's fists, but in memory they struck Jim's shoulders again and again as she cried out in an agony of grief for all of the dead Spock's days that she would never share: _I want them back and you can't! They'll always be yours!_ "It's not his fault. It's not. It's _not_." The basin was narrow, recessed, space-saving, and she was able to lean her forehead against the mirror so that she could no longer see her reflection--only her tears smearing the glass. "It's not. It's not...." But her fists still beat against the fists of that shape with no face that waited for her in the dark, full of poison and fire.

 _He has lost his ship, he has lost his son, and now...._

She sobbed against the mirror for a long time, then bent and washed her face before meeting her reflection's eyes once more. "If it weren't for him, Spock would still be dead," she whispered. The other stared back at her--expressionless, dull eyes with dark, bruise-like smudges beneath.

She waved out the light and left the office, trembling and totally drained. Only when she picked up Shevek in daycare and held him close, her face buried in his sweet baby aura, did the trembling finally stop.

"I almost killed a baby today, Shev, and it was nobody's fault but mine," she whispered. "He was just about half as big as you are. How was your day?"

"Mupup," said Shevek, snuggling closer.

"Good," she said, and began to bundle him into his carrier. "I'm glad somebody's was. C'mon. Up. Up."

"Upup," Shevek agreed.

  
She slept until the following morning, and woke to find Spock's arms around her, his body and spirit drawing the agony from hers as his fingers had once drawn the pain from her mind. _How did you know?_ she asked silently, but he gave no answer in words.

In time she felt him hard against her, and now it was she who could give no answer in kind, could not even seek release when, emotionally drained as she was, there was nothing within her to release. Yet when he tried to draw away, she held him close and spread herself beneath him.

"You are not in need," he whispered, once again unsure.

"I need you all the time." Again she wound her legs around him, drawing him in, delighting in his small shock of pleasure and surprise when he found her wet and welcoming. "All the time." Peace entered her with him, swelling and spilling within her as he did. The patient she had nearly killed was alive in the hospital, and Spock was alive in her.

"I don't understand," he said finally, spent now, and again in confusion. "This was so different for you, and yet it was the same."

"You know the answer. Your parents taught you."

She felt him searching his memories, finding new ones where he least expected them, coming at last to the only answer she could ever give him.

"It was necessary." That was his parents' catchword--a cryptic verbal symbol for needs incomprehensible to or unfelt by the speaker. "But only to me."

"No." She stroked his hair, short and smooth once again. "Why did you cut your hair?" she asked, knowing.

"It was your wish--and theirs."

"Did anybody ask you to?"

"No. But it was...." He held his breath, listening within. "Necessary."

"To you or to them?"

"Both." She could feel his smile, and the comprehension dawning with it. "Necessary to both."

  
When it came time to go the the hospital for her initial evening shift, Sarah called in sick for the first time in seventeen years.

Odd, she thought, that it did not disturb her that she could barely get out of bed long enough to eat supper and tend to Shevek's needs. She wanted only to go nowhere and do nothing, and there was a rightness to that need that told her that it would pass as soon as it was satisfied. Nothing had changed; her life was the same as it had been for eleven years except that Spock was with her and would not be going away for a while this time. That watershed would be her salvation or her downfall, but she did not have the energy to wonder which it would be.

After a drifting, dreamless sleep, she woke at dawn to find Spock sitting on the edge of the bed, his hand holding hers.

"Are you in need of medical attention?" he asked.

"No. If I were my doctor, I'd say, 'Doctor, take a few days off and get some rest.'" She smiled lazily. "I feel like I can't lie down far enough."

"Or long enough?" he asked, frowning a little, and she realized that she had hardly been out of bed for a day and two nights.

"Well...."

"Come, then." He picked her up, carried her out to the courtyard where Shevek was trying to crawl and, to the un-Vulcan delight of his sister, had made it off his blanket. _I didn't even hear him wake up,_ Sarah thought as Spock turned a chair with his foot so that the sun would not shine in her eyes and then settled her into the chair. "Who took him up?" she asked, and her inner detachment rocked a little.

"T'Ara and I," Spock informed her, mildly smug.

"Indeed," said T'Ara.

"But I should--"

"My wife--" Spock extended two fingers, and she met them with hers. "Attend." The right eyebrow climbed, and she relaxed. "You too must obey your doctor's orders."

"This is your 'night,'" she reminded him. But he was obviously not tired, and she knew that he normally required a great deal less sleep than she did.

"I shall rest when the need arises," he assured her, and was true to his word. When the sun grew hot, they moved inside for breakfast. Shortly after T'Ara left for school, Shevek, having stubbornly inched his way into the study, went flat on his stomach and fell asleep in the middle of the floor. As she stretched out on the couch there, Sarah simply nodded when Spock raised his eyebrows at her. He then lay down next to his son and promptly fell asleep too. _Still not quite himself. But getting there fast. In the past two days...._

 _"Do you have any idea how far he's come since he's been with you?"_

Closing her eyes, she sought healing detachment rather than crippling repression of the anger and resentment she now knew was there--let herself drift, remembering her own words to Spock so long ago: "Jim is no threat to me unless I make him that."

Words to live by--or with.

 _So live with it_ , she thought. 

Physician, heal thyself.

No one else can.

  
By the next afternoon, Shevek was crawling all over the house.

T'Ara had never crawled, and Sarek had spent a great deal of time with her while she was learning to walk, deeply involved in her pre-control development. Jill had crawled briefly, and her mother, isolated and bored on Tara, had devoted herself to following the baby around because Jill was by far the most interesting thing life had to offer at the time. But this was different. Shevek's mother was already feeling better, but it was exhausting just to watch Shevek's father playing security guard, following his scuttling son around, arms folded across his chest.

"I should be doing that," she said, devoutly thankful that she wasn't.

"Why?"

"You shouldn't have to."

"Why not?"

Spock's only problem with the situation was so characteristic of him that Sarah had to get up and hug him before they could even discuss it.

"He's so long," she explained, "but he hardly has any hips. I just can't program the recycler so that a diaperpant that's big enough for him will stay on for more than a few minutes."

"If memory serves," Shevek's father informed her, "I have never observed anything this inefficient." He stalked off to inspect the recycler, a commercial model decorated with a bold warning that it was not to be opened by the customer. The customer opened it, ran the program once, scooped up Shevek in mid-scuttle, stripped off the current diaper, and held Shevek up, squealing and wriggling, while his father took visual measurements, back and front.

"Better be careful," Sarah suggested. "He might have to--"

"He will not 'have to' for another three point six minutes." Having completed his measurements, Spock deposited the naked baby in her lap. "Mark." He spent the next quarter-hour reprogramming the recycler, and the result was a diaperpant that Shevek did not lose for almost that time.

The second measurement session was less leisurely; the margin of error was obviously slim. Trying to keep a straight face, Sarah was nevertheless able to keep from commenting. The result was flawless: for the first time since he had pulled himself up to rock, Shevek of Vulcan went from change to change without mishap.

Shortly thereafter, Shevek's mother approached Shevek's father as he walked with folded arms behind his well-diapered son, laid her arms across his shoulders and linked her hands behind his neck. Smiling a little in response to the laughter in her eyes, he put his arms around her waist, linking his hands behind her.

"I love you," she said.

"Non sequitur," he said, both eyebrows on the rise.

She touched her parted lips to his, a kiss for the moment only, promising nothing, denying nothing, simply there.

"No," she said. "It isn't."

  
Allowing herself one more shift away from the hospital, she left T'Ara with the baby that evening and accompanied Amanda to the greenhouse at the foot of the garden. There was weeding to be done, and now Sarah's muscles cried out for activity.

The greenhouse was cooler than their living quarters, and the humid air smelled of Earth and of wet things growing. Amanda refused to use chemical weed suppressant, and so they had plenty to keep them busy. But eventually Sarah sat back on her heels, removed her garden gloves, wiped her forehead with her wrist, and told Amanda about Spock's characteristic behavior with the diaper recycler. "I can't stop wanting our life to be different," she finished. "But I can't want _him_ to be different."

Amanda went on tugging in silence. Finally she asked, "Who has to change, then?"

"I don't know how to do that." Sarah said the words aloud for the first time.

"Oh, Sarah. Just change back. You've been doing it for eleven years."

"Doing _what_?"

"Holding close with open hands."

Looking down at her hands, Sarah realized that she had clenched her fists. "Everybody always says, 'Hang on,'" she said, genuinely bewildered. "'Hang in there.' 'Hang tight.' And you tell me to--"

"Everybody?" Amanda echoed wryly. "You mean men, mostly." She jerked out a particularly stubborn weed and tossed it into the basket beside her. "Or has the old neighborhood changed that much since I moved away?"

Still sitting back on her heels, Sarah let her hands fall open on her knees. "Maybe I've forgotten how. You can't juggle with open hands." And she told Amanda about the anti-grav tube with the juggler buried at the bottom.

Amanda continued her task as she listened. When Sarah had finished her story, she asked quietly, "Is that how you see yourself now--buried in all the balls you've dropped?"

"No." Sarah sighed, smiling a little. "They're all over the bathroom next to my office."

"Good," said Amanda. "How did you manage that?"

And Sarah told her.

"I hit him as hard as I could that night," she said finally, "just like I hit the mirror. I kept hitting his shoulders and screaming, 'Damn you! Damn you!' And he didn't even try to stop me." Amanda had taken off her gloves and moved close, but Sarah did not look up or try to stop the fall of her tears onto her open hands. "And then he held my hands while I cried for Spock." Amanda took her hands and held them, and still the tears fell. "I thought I'd never stop crying but I did and I thanked him for not saying 'I'm sorry' and he said 'I'm not' and I said 'That's all that saves it' and it is."

They sat together on the floor as the moist, green-smelling darkness gathered about them, Amanda still holding Sarah's hands. When the tears stopped, Sarah said, "And tomorrow night I have to go back and gather them all up again. How do I do that, Amanda?"

After a moment, Amanda said softly, "How 'bout one at a time?"

  
One morning a month later, when she left the hospital on time, Sarah circled around toward the _Bounty_ 's landing field on her way home. It was midwinter now, over one Earth month since Jim Kirk and his crew had brought Spock home from Genesis, and the sun rose late; it was still cool enough when she walked home to enjoy sweet breezes, she had never seen the bubble, and if Spock were still there they could walk home together.

 _It says here_ , she thought. She would enjoy walking home with Spock, but that was not her mission this morning.

Back at work, night-shifted and centered within herself once more, she knew that the time had come to test herself. She had not seen Jim Kirk since the evening she left Spock in his care, and he still declined to visit the house on the hill. As time passed, he became less real to her and more symbolic--as though he, rather than her feelings about him, were the monster in the mirror. That thought had jolted her, and was the proximate cause of her detour this morning.   


Spock had already left, and most of the others were in bed for the day. But Kirk and McCoy were having coffee together in the office, and invited her to join them. 

Jim appeared distracted, even tense. McCoy, on the other hand, had good color and looked rested and thoughtful--perhaps not quite at peace, but like a man with purgatories not of his own making. Spock had shielded most of his thoughts of McCoy from her these past weeks, but whatever the man's problem was, it did not appear to Sarah's trained physician's eye to be a serious one. 

"Have you heard from Jill?" Jim asked after they had discussed the weather, the health of the crew, the furnishings of the bubble in general, and McCoy's medical computer in particular. "PREPDIV should be breaking for Christmas in a couple weeks." Sarah shook her head, and the words _I'll let you know if I hear from her_ came to her lips. But she could not bring herself to say them. 

She had never consciously resented Jill's relationship with her father. Yet at this moment she felt irritated, even threatened by Jim's wistful question. She wondered what vacuum her misdirected irritation was rushing in to fill--and realized that even though she had been there for almost fifteen minutes, Spock's name had not come up once in the conversation. 

_I'll let you know if I hear from Jill. Say it. Say it._ But still the words would not come. 

Jim made a restless movement, leaning forward in his chair with both hands around his coffee cup. _Sit still, damn you_ , she thought--and realized that she had already overstayed her ability to be in the same room with the man and maintain her hard-won inner balance. So much for coffeetime congeniality. It was past time to be on her way. 

She was about to voice that thought aloud when McCoy asked, "What do you think about this Vulcan re-education idea, Sarah?" 

Jim, who had been gazing into his cup, looked up then. Their eyes met, and she knew that she should have left five minutes ago. 

"I think it's too soon," she said, returning Jim's gaze. 

"Do you know what the alternative is?" he asked. 

_He's trying_ , she thought. _Just like I am._ But the challenge was there, and they both heard it clearly. "Of course I do." She rose because she could not stay seated, and paced a little way down the room. Room? More like a cell. "I see it every day. So do you. He's doing wonderfully -" 

"No, he isn't." 

At Jim's words, she turned, about to answer, to object, to say something clever. But the words wouldn't come. 

Jim too had risen, setting his cup on the desk. "He's come as far as he can without formal cognitive therapy. He has amnesia, Sarah. He's lost most of his scientific knowledge, all of his knowledge of Starfleet--" 

"Starfleet is not the universe." 

"It's a very important part of his past. If you--" 

"Leave me out of it." 

"I would be _delighted_ \--" He took a deep breath and lowered his voice. "I would be delighted to--if you weren't part of the problem." 

"What the hell do you mean by that?" 

"I mean," he said, voice rising as hers had, "that you think you ought to be the one to make his decisions for him." 

"I suppose you think _you_ ought to?" 

"Maybe Spock ought to," said McCoy. 

He was sitting with his feet on the desk, his coffee cup still in his hands, gazing up at their flushed faces. "He's got all his marbles back," the doctor went on, the sarcasm now gone from his tone. "He just doesn't quite know where they all are yet. The one thing he doesn't need is to have the two people he loves most fighting over him as though he was a prize bone." 

"Watch your tongue, Doctor," Jim snapped. And Sarah wondered how often that had happened. Talk about an innocent bystander. 

"Yes, _suh_." Unimpressed, McCoy removed his feet from the desk, rose, and sketched a salute. "Admiral, _suh_." He bowed to Sarah, and there was the same hint of mockery in it as had been in the salute. "Ma'am." He looked from one to the other, sighed, shook his head, and left the room without another word. 

Sarah turned away and half sat on the edge of the desk. After a few moments she heard Jim do the same, around the corner and at right angles to her. They were silent for a long time. Finally she said, "It's just that I'm scared." _Odd. I could hate this man, and here I am telling him something I haven't even told Amanda._

She heard him turn to look at her, but she did not turn. 

"Did it ever occur to you," he asked quietly, "that what we think of as the Vulcan in him may have been part of his personality even if he were all human?" 

"No." She sighed. "Not 'til just this minute, anyway." After a moment: "Did it ever occur to you that he took over when they fought that fire because you weren't there for him to rely on?" 

"How did you know about that?" he demanded. 

"He told me. He doesn't know why himself. Did it ever occur to you?" 

"Not then." He was still looking at her, but she did not return his gaze. "What do you want to happen, Sarah?" 

"I want him to be what he was." 

"Do you?" 

He had not raised his voice, but she felt the challenge in it, and her hands went to fists in her lap. _That's right. Go on beating on him for the rest of your life._ Her future stretched before her, irretrievably bound up with this man as long as Spock or Jill existed. The burden of her anger expanded to fill the time available, and she felt herself being crushed beneath it. And she thought, _I'm not burying it now, Zoe. It's burying me._

The need to be free overwhelmed her; if she could find her center again and keep it, that would free her. Slowly she let her hands relax, seeking within herself the precarious peace that she had brought here this morning only to have it wrenched away. Looking down at her hands, open now, palms up, she realized that Jim was looking down at them too, and that he had watched her open them. 

"Why don't you _fight_?" he whispered, and she finally looked up to meet the blazing incredulity of his gaze. 

"For what? What I'd win wouldn't be Spock anymore." 

He continued to meet her gaze, but for the first time since she knew him, his was unreadable. After a moment, he asked, "How do you deal with that?" 

Somehow the question was not intrusive, or even personal. She had information that he needed to understand the briefing she was giving him. If she had been one of his officers, he would have said _Explain_. 

"Inside. Somewhere. I can't always find the place. Eliot called it 'the still point of the turning world.'" 

He looked a tad apologetic, and more than a tad bewildered. "Can't help you," he said, smiling a little. "Never been there." 

"I bet not." Trying to lessen the tension, she slid off the edge of the table and moved toward the recycler with her empty coffee cup. Hand raised, ready to throw the cup away, she paused, suspended over the rest of her life by a thought. 

You turn _out_. Like he did. 

You steal your own ship. 

She lowered her hand toward the recycler and then paused again, eyes slightly narrowed, her concentration precluding even physical movement. 

You find the still point, but you don't stay there. You turn _out_ , and take yourself with you. 

She dropped the cup into annihilation and turned. Jim too had risen. The smile was gone, but the question remained. _How do you deal with that?_

"Change what you can and accept what you can't." _Like losing David_ , she thought. _Like losing your ship._ "You heard him say it. 'I _am_ home, Jim.' There's no fighting that." When he did not move or answer, she added, "You're still not saying 'I'm sorry.'" 

He said nothing. And she thought, _Never been there, Jim? You're there now._

She felt her anger gathering for another strike, and thrust her hands into the pockets of her tunic. Decide, juggler. Drop the only ball you'll never miss, the only one that could destroy you all by itself. Turn _out_. Steal your own ship. Begin. Now. 

"I'll let you know if I hear from Jill," she said. 

He nodded, his head barely moving, his eyes still on hers. Feeling suspended again rather than released, she turned from that searching gaze and continued on her journey home. 

  
Walking up the hill, she put the conversation with Jim aside until she could get perspective on it and thought instead about the two years at Starfleet Academy that were never going to happen. 

She would have gone back to All Worlds Hospital in San Francisco for two years. They could have been together all that time. They could have been a family. 

_Why doesn't it hurt?_ she asked herself. _Why doesn't it sound right?_

Her steps slowed as she walked up the hill, listening within. _Why doesn't it even sound like something I'd want?_

She walked on, thinking of McCoy, gliding past Jim's anger as though he knew how temporary it would be. How familiar they are to each other, and to Spock. Not for the first time, she felt excluded, shut out. In her mind she saw them all as Spock held them dear in his deepest memories--a gallery of cameo portraits done in red and blue and gold. Sulu smiled over his shoulder at Spock's culled-out humanity, with Chekov as their delighted audience. And Uhura, smiling too at the entire Spock years rejoined: "Do we make your day, Mr. Spock? Just fractionally?" Scotty on Taurus II, the one solid supporter of an inexperienced, single-minded first officer with his first command. And McCoy in the lift aboard the _Enterprise_ bound for Vulcan instead of Altair: "I would be honored, sir." His strongest memory of Jim was a smile, given in response to Spock's impulsive but deeply felt declaration that he would not want to serve under Richard Daystrom's ultimate computer. Their cameo portraits were a part of him that she could never share except in his memories. But if he were to go back to Starfleet Academy for retraining.... 

She climbed on up the hill. Above her, just outside the gate to the courtyard, a lacy yellow Vulcan tree grew tall, delicate, alien. She felt a pang of homesickness for Earth, and then thought of Amanda, just before Sarah and T'Ara had left for Earth over a year ago, speaking from sad experience: "If you think you're homesick now, wait until you get there." And her own answer: "You didn't have you to miss, but I will." 

Circles. Everything going in circles, and always coming back to the same reality: without many of his human memories, could Spock survive Vulcan retraining intact and integrated? For there was no question in her mind that he would choose that path. 

Necessary. 

_I want him to be what he was._ And only one person could accomplish that, just as he had accomplished it before. 

Necessary to both. 

But still the fantasy of two years as a family in San Franciso floated on the edges of her mind, tantalizing and yet faintly repellent. 

  
In the garden court, Amanda was going over her class notes for the day. As Sarah came near, the other looked up, smiling, her blue eyes catching the blue of her blouse. "T'Ara sent Sember on his way this morning. She and her father are doing decision trees in the study, and I guess it's fascinating enough that she can walk to school alone." 

"How to you 'do' decision trees?" Sarah asked, dropping down on the lip of the fountain. 

Amanda shrugged. "Something like doing lunch?" 

Sarah laughed. "Sember's still around here all the time. Neither of them has any other close friends." 

"I like the chess tournament idea, though, don't you? At least they're with other children." Sarah nodded. What with one thing and another, she had forgotten about the chess tournament, which seemed to be going on most of the time lately. "Sember does take me back, though," Amanda went on wistfully. "When I was T'Ara's age, there was a little boy who used to come around all the time. My father used to say, 'Doesn't he ever go home?'" 

Sarah nodded again, thinking of her uncle, who had expressed the same idea now and then during her teen years, when her two girl cousins had also been teenagers. Passing Amanda on her way into the house, she pressed her arm, grateful for her presence as always. 

Spock and T'Ara were still at the computer in the study. T'Ara gave her a brief smile, and Spock stroked her hand as it lay on his shoulder. But she was sure they hardly knew it when she left the room and went off to bed. 

And dreamed. 

A tree with lacy yellow branches grows in the dream, and on its branches are four cameos--pictures of people the dreamer does not recognize. A fifth frame, in the middle of the tree, is empty. "What is it?" she asks, pointing to the yellow lace where cameo portraits grow like leaves. And a voice answers, "It is a decision tree." It is a deep, quiet voice, totally familiar and dearly beloved--the voice of the one the dreamer loves best. She wonders who the people in the portraits are, one in blue and three in white, and why the frames looks so strange. "Why do all the frames have...?" But in the dream, she can't say what the frames all have. "It is necessary," answers the voice of the one she loves best. She begins to feel agitated, even frightened. She should know who these people are. This is her family tree. She thinks that she wants to steal a ship and go to Earth for a reason she can't remember. But if you think something in a dream, it might come true. And it does. The portraits inside the frames on the decision tree shrink backwards into blackness, speeding away into nothing. The dreamer tries to cry out, and can't, and does, and wakes. 

No. 

Lying on her back, still alone in bed, she wiped the tears away as the grief of the dream faded. Like Earth, she thought. Like Earth on the _Enterprise_ viewscreen a year ago, speeding away into blackness. "What was it?" she asked half aloud, and the dream vanished. A few vague images remained--a tree with pictures on it.... Family tree? Something about a family tree, she was sure. 

Sighing, she turned over and hugged the pillow. She should sit up and try to remember the dream, decide what it meant. But she drifted, listening for Spock's step. Blackness. The dream was disappearing into blackness like Earth on the viewscreen. 

"Your grandmother warned me," she heard herself saying to T'Ara. "I miss her, and T'Loreth, and Zoe." 

Kim was there too, now. 

But before she could finish remembering, she was asleep again. 

  
As Spock's Vulcan retraining got underway, Sarah was overjoyed to learn that they were not, as she had feared, back where they began. The integrity of his self-image as a Vulcan was clearly not an issue to him now, much less an impediment to his relationships. 

Preoccupation was the impediment. 

Linked to him as she was, she could rejoice with him as his Vulcan retraining brought dormant memories to light and his mind flicked with increasing speed from one to the other, greeting them like old friends. When he and Sarah were together, even the bonding link swarmed with equations and prehistory and Surak knew what else, taken in with huge gulps of mental activity that would have been impossible if he had been all human. Trying to make sense of it all did not daunt him. It flooded him with joy. Ever single-minded and task-oriented, he began to spend more and more of his free hours on his studies. 

The first time he took a hand-held tape reader to bed with him, Sarah thought she might be in trouble. Half a tenday later, she knew she was. 

"You look like you need a swim," Kim told her one morning as they finished their half hour overlap and briefing. 

A swim, Sarah reflected, might do the trick, since there was no such thing as a cold shower on Vulcan. She and Zoe went off shift at the same time now. But they had not gone swimming together for many days. 

"I should be getting home," she told Kim. "Now that Spock is being retrained, he leaves earlier, so we don't see as much of each other." Her throat closed a little on the euphemism. 

"All work and no play, boss," Kim said, and motioned Sarah out the door. "You look like hell these last few mornings. Have you been exercising at all?" 

"On my breaks." 

"Great. Go see Nurse Keller. If she can cure a rainy day, she can probably do something for you." Kim was not a telepath, and Zoe's method of monitoring her charges in the neonatal nursery seemed unorthodox and chancy to her. Yet Sarah knew that in spite of their bickering, the researcher held Zoe in grudging respect, as did the Vulcans on staff. "So...." Again Kim gestured toward the door. 

"You trying to get rid of me?" 

"Sure. I love your job so much I can't wait to get at it." Kim glanced at the stack of tapes in her in-box. "One more month. Counting the days." 

One more month. 

Sarah rose, but she was in no hurry to leave. Not too long ago, she had invariably left the hospital in the morning high on anticipation. Now she felt apprehensive. A wrong move would not be held against her now, she knew. But in context, every move seemed wrong. "I think I'll go soak my head," she said. "Thanks for the suggestion." 

Kim frowned. "Sarah, can I ask you something?" Sarah nodded. "Why do you like being with Zoe?" 

"For the same reason I like being with you. Because she's so one of a kind." She clasped Kim's hand briefly, and felt the answering pressure in return. "Thanks again. I don't know what I'd--" 

"You promised you wouldn't keep saying that," Kim reminded her. 

"I think it all the time." 

"Then think it someplace else." Smiling now, Kim gestured her toward the door, and this time Sarah went through it. 

  
She and Zoe swam laps until they were tired, and then they floated on their backs, looking up at the tiled ceiling. The third-shift workers had all left, and the first shift was already on duty. The water lapped at the edges of the pool, and green shadows flickered over the IDIC symbol inlaid in the tile above them. 

"Looks like an engagement ring from Woolworth's," Zoe said meditatively. "You know, the kind with the great big--" Sarah was forced to flip over and dog paddle to the edge of the pool to keep from sinking. Zoe followed her, and they floated their feet and legs, hanging onto the side. "So," Zoe continued, "is he getting recreated in Pop's image and likeness, or what?" 

Sarah's spontaneous laughter died. "Am I that transparent?" 

"Is he?" 

"No." Sarah was silent for a moment, looking out across the rippling green water. "That's what I was afraid would happen, but...." She sighed. "There's so much for him to relearn, and it's all so fascinating." 

"It wasn't fascinating the first time through?" 

"He had years to learn it all the first time. Now he has weeks." Sarah was looking down now, but she knew that Zoe was gazing at her intently. "There isn't much room for him to have anything else on his mind." 

"Oh, shit," said Zoe. "Join the club." 

"Now?" Sarah was startled out of her discomfort. Zoe had been married for two years, and Sarah had had the impression that daily cohabitation had overcome whatever half Vulcan inhibitions Sedek had brought to the relationship. 

"Now and then." Zoe grinned her wry grin. "Hey, I thought you were the one who knew all the answers." 

"So did I." 

"So jog his memory a little. He won't break. Retraining is the word of the day, right?" 

"You've got to be kidding." 

"Try it. You'll like it. So will he, once he gets over the shock." 

"I can't--" Sarah began, and then stopped when Zoe laid the edge of her palm to the water. 

"You want this right in the face?" Zoe asked amiably. Sarah set her mouth, realized that she probably looked prim, and smiled instead. After a moment, Zoe relaxed her hand. "Poor baby. Tell mama all about it." Her eyes sparkled, but the sarcasm in her voice was very faint. 

"I can't make a move on him if he isn't interested." 

Again Zoe's hand strayed toward the surface of the water. With thumb and forefinger, she flipped a few drops of water in Sarah's direction. 

"Sure y'can," she said. 

  
When she prepared for bed later that morning, Sarah put on a sleeping robe, then removed it in disgust and scooted into bed like a virgin bride. 

He was sitting up against his pillow. Like her, he wore nothing but the sheet; the combination of closed blinds and nonexistent humidity made day-sleep tolerable, but wearing a sleeping robe was inappropriate in any circumstances. In the palm of his hand was the omnipresent reader. When she slid beneath the sheet and then remained sitting, sheet pulled up and arms around her knees, she felt rather than saw his gaze move from the reader to her bare back, then felt his hand there, stroking lightly, tenderly. Yet there was nothing else in him --no longing, no need. More than half his mind was still on the reader. 

Then he perceived her thoughts, and his hand paused, resting on her shoulder. 

"Zoe thinks I should try to seduce you," she said aloud, her voice muffled by the sheet and her knees. 

His hand remained on her shoulder, and there was no appreciable change in his mood. But his mind was clearing and focusing, and after a moment she heard the reader click off. "That may be a viable alternative," he said drily, and when she turned and buried her face against his shoulder, his arms went around her. 

"I don't know how," she whispered, still unable to look at him. 

Drawing the sheet away, he took her hand in his and moved it downward. _Touch me_ , he whispered through their link, and she shivered, feeling a warm wetness between her own thighs as he spread his. Gently freeing her hand, she found him soft, then not soft, then hard beneath her stroking fingers. She knew the terrain, having explored it more than once. A finger touch along this ridge brought a sigh that stirred her hair; across that velvet smoothness, and his body twisted a little, his hands grasping her arms, guiding her to straddle him. He was still barely reclining on a pillow propped against the head of the bed, and they embraced as their bodies joined--sweet merging, sweet melting, rising like a golden tide to engulf them both. 

They slept then, and woke to love again in the late afternoon. When he left at sunset, he took the tape viewer with him, and it never appeared in their bedroom again. 

  
The Vulcan holiday that occurred immediately before the _Bounty_ 's shakedown cruise gave Sarah a night away from work, but she took it with mixed feelings. Although turning night into day had solved more pressing problems, Spock's contacts with her and his children were far from normal. Now that he was working with the healers, both his shift on the _Bounty_ and his time at home were truncated, and she herself was often at the hospital longer than the ten and a half hours she had originally cleared with T'Loreth. In theory, it shouldn't matter whether they worked at night or in the daytime. But in practice, they did little together but eat, sleep, and make love. 

She had known that the holiday would change nothing, that he would simply work a full shift with his crewmates. But when she saw him go off with two wingpacks, the sense of being excluded again overcame her. There was no rational basis for it, she knew. She had no interest in windflying. And yet the resentment was there. For she had no doubt that Spock would be windflying at dawn with the captain of the _Bounty_. 

Turn _out_ , she thought, and went off with Zoe to a concert as she had planned. Zoe's husband, a staff physician at Salk Memorial, also worked nights, and Salk had a fine disregard for local holidays. 

The outdoor concert was in the same park as the concert Sarah and Jim Kirk had attended the night they met. But this time the musicians were from Earth, and the two human women enjoyed an orchestral history of Terran music spanning five centuries. The audience was mostly human, and instead of sitting on the grass, listening intently, they sprawled and even slept under the Vulcan stars. Sarah and Zoe lay on their backs, heads pillowed in their hands. 

The concert ended with the long night only half gone, and Sarah sighed. 

"More problems?" Zoe asked. "Or maybe you can't stand prosperity?" 

"I don't know if it's a problem. He's been on the fringes of the Time ever since the link was renewed. It's not going anywhere, but it's not going away either." 

She felt rather than saw Zoe turn her head. "He's fighting it?" 

"No. It's not that strong. He's ignoring it." 

"Compulsively?" 

"No. There are so many other things going on in him right now that it's easy to just--not think about it. He isn't even aroused all the time. You know about that. But it's there. I think it must be hormonal. He isn't quite--back on track. He isn't in any danger, but...." 

"A little repression, maybe?" 

"Maybe a little. From time to time." 

"So unrepress him. Try something you're not doing." 

"Like what?" Sarah asked smugly. 

Zoe whistled. "Maybe you should be counseling _me_?" 

"No, you were right. But that was different. Human." 

"Why are you so worried?" 

"He's going away again in two tendays, Zoe. What if he--" 

"Oh, Christ." Zoe sat up, and Sarah turned her head to look at her. "Look, if he isn't into it by now, he's not going to be when he's away from you! Besides, he's just going to Earth, isn't he? Big trial coming, right? So he'll be there a while. How long would it take to get back here? Three or four days? I swear to God, Sarah--if you don't have something to worry about, you _find_ something to worry about." 

  
Zoe's uncomplicated objectivity had reassured her, but the night was still not over. At home in the silent house, she decided to try to catch up on her taping. She had owed Chris a tape for weeks. 

In the months since her return to Vulcan and Shevek's birth, she and her cousin had re-established the rapport they had shared since they were children together. But Chris's last tape had disturbed her, and she had put off answering it. "I suppose you're right," he had said, looking down at something he was toying with on his desk. His mop of untidy dark hair was still untouched with gray, his thin face still unlined. But in his eyes there was a puzzled sadness that was all too familiar. "If I got to know Spock, I might feel differently about him. But I--" He sighed. "It's hard, Sarah, to think that I owe him for saving your life. That kind of a debt lies heavy on the heart when he took you away from us again, and always will." 

Rerunning the tape now, she froze it on a still shot of Chris looking up at the monitor. _Understand me_ , his gaze entreated. _Please understand._ And she thought about answering that she understood only too well. Instead she spent five minutes chatting about her work and her children, and then put the tape away unsent. Chris deserved better than to have his pain ignored, especially when she shared it in another context. 

_He took you away from us again, and always will._

"It's not Jim's fault," she whispered aloud, and went to find a book to read until morning. But when morning came, there was no respite from the envy gnawing within her. 

It was full daylight, over an hour beyond the time Spock usually got home, when he finally appeared in the doorway of the study where she was still trying to read. There were times when she wished the link were less revealing. He simply stood there, hands behind his back, head tilted a little to the side, looking her over. 

"I keep telling myself," she said, "that I've gone swimming with Zoe several times without letting you know that I was going to be late coming home." 

"That is not the real problem." 

"No." 

They regarded one another in silence across the distance between them, and then he said, "If you had ever asked me to stay on Vulcan--" 

"Don't." She rose, trying to keep her voice light. "Some other time, Spock. Please? I have to get Shevek now." She realized that she would have to pass him to get out of the room, and paused when he laid his hand on her shoulder. 

"Do you wish to make peace now," he asked softly, "or wait until your resentment does serious damage?" 

"It's not you I have to make peace with, my love. It's myself." 

He sighed. "That is not quite correct." But when she pressed her cheek against his hand and then moved on, he did not attempt to detain her. 

She did not get Shevek. She went out into the court, where she knew Amanda would be looking over her class notes for the day, as she invariably was in the morning. They greeted one another briefly, and Sarah went to sit on the lip of the fountain. 

It was not that he was going away, she knew. It was that he wanted to go. No matter what, he always wanted to go. 

"Sarah?" Amanda had spoken so softly that her voice was almost inaudible. Sarah nodded, still turned away. 

"Could he love you more if he loved Jim less?" 

Looking down into the fountain, Sarah saw the pain clear from her reflection's eyes, saw a smile form there. He's right, she told her image. You are beautiful. Leaning over, she drew her hand across the surface, back and forth until the reflection was gone, and all that remained was the intricate pattern of sunlight sparkling on water. 

  
Shevek always took a morning nap, sleeping for an hour or two after breakfast, fueling up for the rest of the day during which he remained awake until after sundown. T'Ara left for school about the time the baby went back to bed, and when the house was quiet and empty except for Sarah and Spock, she sought him out in the study where she had been reading when he came in that morning. 

He was sitting lotus-like at the potter's wheel, a therapeutic technique that his healers had recommended when he found himself unready for sleep. Of late, he and Sarah had had considerable success with another, very un-Vulcan technique for relaxing him into delicious semi-consciousness when his mind was overly active. But the wheel had a lulling effect on his mind that could not be duplicated. The apparatus was small, and the clay was too dry to cling to his hands and yet viscous enough to produce simple vases and pots, all perfectly symmetrical. The wheel was in fact a child's toy, far less complex than those used by adult professionals to create much more intricate artifacts. Because there were no components to splatter or spill, he was able to pursue this activity in the house. 

Having no desire to interrupt him but wanting very much to be physically close, Sarah sat down on the floor behind him with her arms around her knees and leaned against his back, her cheek against his shoulder. Sensing the profound change in her mood, he half turned his head, fractionally checking the rotation of the wheel. 

"Go on," she whispered. "We have time." 

He went on, listening through their link, rejoicing with her, sharing her peace. The wheel hummed like a musical instrument, lulling her into a light sleep. She dreamed that they were making love on the surface of a clear-water lake, shimmering with blue and green and gold, the colors of the shawl that he had once sent to her from some far world, and woke to find him checking the wheel once more, this time more than fractionally. When it had spun itself silent, he whispered, "Fascinating." 

Having shared her dream, he was moderately aroused, but also very much aware that they were not in a private area of the house; the open door of the study was only a few meters from the door to the courtyard, which was also open. Still leaning against him, she shared his reflexive consideration of the feasibility of controlling the physical manifestation of his human maleness, and then the mental shrug with which he abandoned that consideration. 

"My husband, must you think about controlling even the thought?" 

"My wife," he answered drily, "what you have observed can hardly be called a thought." 

She knew that he was smiling, and wanting to see him smile, she turned a little and lowered herself to the floor, curved around him, only the upper part of her body visible to him. He smiled down at her, now wishing that they were in their bedroom with the door closed. 

"We could do it right here," she said lazily, still not fully roused from her brief nap. And then they were both very much awake. 

The last thing in the universe that either of them really wanted was to be caught in the act on the study floor. But with the incredible perversity of human reactions to danger, the awareness that they could be caught sent a jolt of desire through them both, each fanning the other's flame to such intense excitement that before they were aware of it, they were on the floor together with their tunics open down the front and their trousers around their knees. Within seconds, both experienced violent physical release that was like a cross between a cymbal crash and a sneeze, leaving little more satisfaction than it would have if it had been. 

Resting momentarily, both tried to get their mental bearings. Then she touched his earlobe with her tongue, and felt a shiver pass the length of his body. Still lying on top of her, he glanced over his shoulder toward the open door. The sight intensified his arousal even as it did hers, and she touched his earlobe again, this time with her teeth. 

Almost laughing now, he pulled himself up to kneel beside her, still half naked, still fully aroused. It could not be the Time, she knew. If it had been, he would have been incapable of speech or rational behavior by now. But she had never seen him hard again so soon except during the Time. 

Taking her hands in his, he braced to pull her to a sitting position, his dark eyes still sparkling with suppressed laughter, his usually sallow cheeks pale green. "Come." 

Instead of cooperating, she grinned. "I just d--" 

"Sarah!" Pressing his lips together, his eyes crinkling at the corners, he grasped her wrists and pulled them both to their feet, tunics still hanging open, trousers now around their ankles. He glanced over his shoulder once again, and turning back, made the mistake of pausing and looking down to take in the view. Then the length of him was pressing against her once more, his mouth warm against her shoulder. 

She murmured, "Nobody here yet. Are you sure you don't want to keep trying?" 

"Enough!" He was smiling, but this time there was no dissuading him. He fastened his own trousers at the waist, and then, because she was not cooperating with hers, he simply pulled them up around her waist, picked her up, carried her to their bedroom and deposited her on the bed, forgetting to kick the door shut as he normally would have done. 

Then he remembered. As he moved back toward her, his eyes drinking her in, she pulled her trousers down and her knees up, letting her knees fall apart as she drew her tunic back over her shoulders until she was fully exposed without destroying the perception of being half clothed that was driving them both wild. Still wearing his open tunic, he unfastened his trousers again, freed one leg and half knelt on the bed, leaning over her and supporting himself on one hand just above her shoulder. 

"Why do you want this?" His voice was low, but his dark eyes shone with unbanked fires. 

"Because you do." 

"Your altruism...." Slowly, deliberately, he ran his hand down her body, caressing each naked breast with his fingertips and then squeezing it, thumb rubbing each erect nipple until she moaned, her head thrashing from side to side on the pillow. His hand continued downward, so slowly that she spread her thighs ever farther and raised her hips to meet it. Then his hand was making intimate love to her and she was rubbing herself against it, wishing this could last forever even as she knew it could not last more than a few seconds longer. She came writhing and twisting and crying out, her body arching as she heard him whisper, "...is commendable." Then he was on her and in her, thrusting uncontrollably, his fingers kneading her shoulders as hers kneaded his buttocks, nails digging into flesh as she pulled him deeper within her. All of it had happened before--three Times before. He was as aware of it as she was, and her soul sang with joy that that awareness did not bother him at all. Instead of hiding his face in shame, he rose on his elbows, fingers still kneading her shoulders, head thrown back a little, eyes closed now, lips parted, groaning deep in his throat as he poured himself into her, claiming the heart and soul of Vulcan with his head thrown back in triumph. At that moment, he was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen. 

He collapsed against her, breathing deeply rather than in the shallow gasps that she had half expected. If this were really the beginning of the Time, instinct would have driven him to stimulate two or three more ejaculations before he lost consciousness from sheer exhaustion. Instead, he put his arms around her shoulders and pressed his face against her throat, breathing in her essence as she was breathing in his, her hands moving over his back. 

She tried not to flinch, but his sweat and hers set the scratches on her shoulders stinging. Raising himself a little once again, he kissed both shoulders and then rose, stripping off his clothing as he moved purposefully toward the adjoining bath. He wouldn't know where she kept the salve, she thought, or even what it looked like. He had never been conscious when she went to get it. But even as she thought the thought, he proved her wrong. Returning, he stripped her as he had stripped himself, turned her until she was prone, and began to rub the healing salve into her shoulders with soothing movements of hand against skin. Always before she had done this for them both, and now she luxuriated in the fact that he was doing it for her, then made him lie down so that she could soothe his lacerated buttocks. 

"I must have been asleep when you did this before," he said drowsily, his voice muffled against crossed arms. 

"Yes." A mischievous impulse tempted her, and she gave into it, knowing that it could not cause him pain. "Are you that Spock now?" 

"Perhaps." He turned his face against his arms so that he could look at her sideways, and she knew that she would get what she deserved, as she always did eventually. "Are you that Sarah?" he asked innocently, and she saw in his mind the memory of her writhing beneath him, wantonly inviting him deeper into her body just as she did during the Time. 

She looked down, lowered her head fractionally and then looked up at him from beneath her lashes. "Perhaps," she agreed demurely. 

He turned on his side and pulled her down against him, her back to him so that they could lie together as they did in sleep, his body curved around hers, their arms entwined in front of her, his cheek against her hair. As their minds drifted together, he shared her conversations with Zoe the night before and with his mother that morning, and she shared his with Jim. Understanding, she was tempted toward guilt at having resented his being with Jim at the very time that he was demonstrating the depth of his commitment to their bond. But it was done; guilt could not erase it, but only ensure that it would never happen again. And it was that very alienation, she knew, that had spawned the erotically exultant joining that had finally freed him from the lingering hormonal imbalance that had worried her until now. 

"You wanted so much to go with him," she said, and felt his arms tighten around her. 

"Yes. But this is necessary now. For both." 

"When will you go back with him?" 

"When he goes." He hesitated for a moment, but knowing that she could listen now, he went on. "Until he was in jeopardy, I would have stayed with you if you had ever asked me to." 

"I know. That's why I never asked." 

"I know." Sliding his hand between her cheek and the pillow, he buried his face in her hair, loving her with every part of him, body and soul. And for the first time, it came to her that if she had ever tried to hold him, they would never have come close to the relationship they now had. 

She had never realized that any aspect of their lengthy separations could have had positive value. In the wake of that thought, she remembered how she had initially wanted them to go to Earth for two years, and of how inexplicably wrong for her it had been. And then the floodgates opened on the most incredible insight of her life, almost taking her breath away. 

"That wouldn't have been us on Earth. _This_ is us." She saw the Vulcan family tree of cameos in her dream, and they were Amanda, T'Loreth, Zoe, and Kim. The empty frame in the middle was no longer empty. It was a mind-wrought self-portrait. The cameos were not oval, but round--circles with tiny crosses at the bottom. "And your cameos...." She knew that he understood. It was all so clear in her mind now, and he was there too. "You at his side, and me here with them. Parted from me and never parted. It's... _they_ are how we grow--how we learn to love. They're...our way." 

It seemed that her heart would burst with joy, and yet she had never been further from tears. It was he who was almost weeping with joy for her, holding her as though he could not get her close enough. 

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked, knowing at last who the voice in her dream had been, the one the dreamer loved best, saying _It is a decision tree_. That had not been the bonding link, she knew. Her own unconscious mind had provided the dream images, and even the voices. But she also knew that her insight was not new to him, just as she knew what his silent answer would be. 

_How?_

  
She slept lightly for a time, and then woke with a start, turning to him in the yellow light of early afternoon, finding him awake but filled with a great and restful peace. "The shakedown will take a week. That means there's no work for you to do here." 

"And you?" he asked. 

"Kim can get along without me for two or three days." Kim. But Kim would understand, and it was necessary. "T'Ara's always wanted to explore the Forge at night, and Shev's happy anywhere." 

"Sarah, they sleep at night." But she knew that her excitement had already caught him. 

"Kids can adapt to anything. We could even take--" Too much? But he was smiling. 

"The ubiquitous Sember." 

"It would give you a chance to get to know him, and it would make T'Ara so happy, and they aren't so exclusive now, since the tournament, and--" 

He laid his finger against her lips. "I have never seen you like this." But his eyes were shining. 

"I know. But let's. _Let's._ " 

"Very well," he said, still smiling. "Let's." 

  
They set out at sunset, high on adrenalin and low on encumbrances. "Take half the clothes and twice the money" was still an oft-repeated saying among humans. Vulcans, Sarah learned, took the clothes on their backs and no credits at all on an excursion such as this. The insulated desert suits they wore were of woven natural fiber, as was the special underwear beneath. Sarah's backpack was full of diaperpants, and Spock's was full of Shevek, who let it be known where he wanted to ride. The two children carried food, water, and extra underclothing for all. Hanging from all their belts were the weapons necessary for their protection, including a miniature force-field generator which would keep predators away during the sleeping hours of the day. 

T'Ara and Sember were unable to believe their good fortune. Both kept their Vulcan dignity, but their fascination with every aspect of the journey was a joy to behold. The first night they walked for six hours before their energy flagged. The second, it was morning before it was necessary to make camp so that they could rest. Neither of them had ever undergone the ritual of kas-wahn, for it was now accepted among Vulcans that hybrid children of weaker species were often at risk. And so they listened with rapt attention to Spock's comments and explanations, reveling in the beauty of the desert night and in the undivided attention of T'Ara's parents. Le-matyas screamed in the distance but did not approach, and Spock took care to warn the children against other predatory fauna and flora that they encountered on their way. By the time they turned homeward and found safe haven in a cave for their second day of sleep, Sember had lost his shyness, and was questioning Spock as incessantly as T'Ara did. Throughout, Shevek behaved admirably, wiggling only now and then, and not crying at all. 

"I wish he'd be able to remember it like the rest of us will," Sarah whispered when she and Spock finally bedded down beneath her blue and green shawl with the children near them on the cave floor. The children were all asleep and tired enough to remain so all day. But it was pleasant to whisper together under a shawl at the back of a cave, knowing that the entrance was well protected and that their everydays were still kilometers away. "I don't know when I've been so happy." 

"Nor I." But although she knew he spoke the truth, she also knew that he was no more ready for sleep than she was, and was not surprised when his hands began to wander. They lay on their sides, facing one another, and she was the one who was facing the children. "Are you sure they're all asleep?" he asked. 

"Mmm-hmm," she answered languidly, moving up against him--sweet touching, undershirts up to their armpits, briefs equally disarranged. They were silent for a time, rubbing slowly, sensuously against each other, then slowly joining. "We'll have to be very, very quiet, though," she whispered finally, solemnly, laying one leg over his hip. 

"Then be quiet," he whispered back, and she was. 

Their loving took a long time, their rhythm slow and gentle even to the end. When it was over, she whispered, "This is so much fun it might get to be a habit. Do you think we'll ever want to do it naked again?" 

He made a sound between a chuckle and a sigh. "I would estimate that the probabilities are high." 

That night, after they arrived back in ShiKahr and both T'Ara and Sember had accepted Spock and Sarah's gift of self with shining eyes, Spock proved once again to be an excellent estimator of probabilities. 


	15. And Bread I Broke

# And Bread I Broke

> _"...And bread I broke with you was more than bread."_
> 
> \--Conrad Aiken

  
It was barely dawn, and Kirk took his coffee outside and sat with it on the sill of the open doorway, looking across at the _Bounty_ a few meters away.

Shakedown finished. Time to go home.

 _Your first, best destiny...._

 _In whatever fleet we end up serving...._

"Captain Kirk?"

He looked up at the unfamiliar mode of address, and then stood as Spock's mother came toward him in the early sunlight. She was dressed for her teaching job, in a simple blue blouse and skirt. But the skirt brushed the ground, and there was something about the way it was cut, the way it draped, that was alien. Fascinating woman. He found himself smiling, already disarmed, although he had a good idea why she was there.

"Good morning, ma'am."

"Amanda," she said, and waited.

"Good morning, Amanda," he repeated, and waited.

"Good morning, Jim." They both chuckled, and he pointed to his coffee cup. "Yes, thank you." When he returned with both cups filled, she had seated herself on the door sill, and he sat down beside her, grinning.

"I feel like the spider sitting down beside Miss Muffet."

"Then we'll have to do something about that, won't we."

"Ma'am--uh--Amanda, Jill told me about your party, and I'm--"

"That's a mistake, you know."

"No, it's not. I made the decision when we came here that we would not risk involving Spock's family in our problem. That decision still stands."

"You made the decision," she echoed him. "For yourself--and your crew."

"That's how it's usually done."

"Did you ask them how they feel about this decision you've made for them?" She was looking at him innocently; she might have been commenting on the weather.

After a moment, he said, "No." It sounded clipped even to him.

"Did you ask Sarek and me how we feel about it?" He did not answer, now wondering who the spider really was and how he was going to get out of this particular web. "This has nothing whatever to do with Starfleet, Jim. You and five other human beings have been living in a plastic ball for three months, and you're about to go home to Earth to be court-martialed. Now you tell me that you've made the decision, for them, that you and they are not to attend a party that might take your minds off what's coming for a few hours. And along the way, you've made the decision for Sarek and me that we are not to be permitted to socialize with the people who brought our son back from the dead. That does seem a little...arbitrary? Is that the right word?"

"Did Spock ask you to do this?"

"Spock would never discuss a decision of yours with me. Surely you know that."

"Did Jill?"

"No."

After a moment, he nodded.

"So." She was smiling again, the gracious lady from Earth extending an invitation. "I'm having a party tomorrow evening. Nothing formal. Just a few friends dropping by. May we count on you and your crew to join us, Captain?"

"Yes," he said, staring down into his cup. He felt her hand on his arm, and looked up into her eyes. "We'd like that very much. Thank you, Amanda. And it's Jim, remember?"

"But I like calling you 'Captain.' It suits you." Their gaze held for a moment and then she leaned over without haste and kissed his cheek. "May the wind be at your back, Jim Kirk." Her hand tightened on his arm, and he patted it, aware of how good it felt to comfort someone else--almost as good as it had with Jill.

When she had gone, he took the cups back into the food area and was only a little surprised to find McCoy with his feet up on the table, eating a piece of pie .

"I got as far away as I could get," he said.

"Why didn't _you_ get on me about this?" Kirk threw the cups in the recycler, thought better of it, got another cup of coffee and joined McCoy at the table.

"If she hadn't, I would've."

"I mean before this."

"We didn't have an invitation before this," said the doctor.

  
On the day of Amanda's party, Sarah had a visitor in her office at the Academy hospital.

She had known Simon Greenwood since he was a child, when she had become a resident under T'Loreth's supervision seventeen years before. Simon's mother, a Vulcan, had been a patient of T'Loreth's when Simon was delivered. She had died at his birth, and his human father had taken the child back to Earth, where Simon had lived among humans for twelve years. Sarah and T'Loreth had never known why the father had sent Simon back to live for a year with his Vulcan grandparents. But they had both suspected that the man had realized too late that a half Vulcan was too alien to be raised as a human. Unlike Spock, Simon had no sense of himself, Vulcan or human, and had not gained it until long after his marriage to a human woman. At twelve he had been brilliant, unstable, and totally unable to adjust to his grandparents' way of life. Returning to Earth, he had eventually joined Starfleet and achieved enough stability to be assigned to the _Lexington_ as helmsman, spending eight hours daily side by side with his future wife, the ship's navigator. Kathleen, like Sarah, had weathered the first years of her marriage to a Vulcan/human hybrid. But Kathleen had been killed in an accident half an hour before the emergency surgical delivery of her second child --the baby girl whom Sarah had rocked the night of Spock's fal-tor-pan.

She had seen the baby several times since then, reassuring herself that the child was thriving, though small and delicate. The pediatrician on the case, a Vulcan, had done his homework, and had instructed the grandparents well. Sarah was sure that the baby was not reveling in physical affection. But she had good color and seemed alert and intelligent.

"She's a beautiful little girl," Simon told Sarah as he sat smiling across the desk from her in her office. Like Spock, he looked Vulcan in his red-mahogany Starfleet uniform--spare and graceful, his dark eyebrows curving upward at the same angle as the points of his elegant ears. But his face was a little rounder than Spock's, his brown eyes less grave, and his mouth had a humorous twist and a sensuous fullness. Sarah had seen human females on staff gazing after him each time he had come to visit T'Loreth throughout the years, and she imagined that their speculations might be correct. He and Kathleen had had a difficult time at first, for no one had explained pon farr to either of them until some time after the fact. But during the last office visit before her death, Kathleen had remarked contentedly, "I always know that when my logic fails, his will still be there." Then she had looked at Sarah deadpan, and winked. "Almost always."

"I wish that Kathleen could have seen her," Sarah said now in response to Simon's remark about his daughter.

"I wish that too, very much. And I wish she could see Seth with her. My little boy," Simon added proudly. "Have you ever met him?"

"Once." She thought of the little boy saying, _I can hold her_ , and smiled. "Actually, twice. He was the greenest baby I ever delivered." Simon cocked an eyebrow. "Really. He was beautiful. Kathleen said, 'Seth sounds Vulcan, but he'll know it isn't.'" Simon looked away and down, his eyebrows drawing together. "I'm sorry. It's only been three months. I'm sure you still miss her."

"We had a great deal of time to miss one another, and so little time together. If she could have remained in Starfleet...." He sighed--resigned, accepting, now smiling a little. "Foolish humans. Always thinking 'If only.'" Sarah nodded. "Doctor, I would like to name my little girl after you. I'm sure that's what Kathleen would want if--if she knew."

 _She has a name_ , Sarah thought. _Her name's T'inkerbell._ But that might be a bit much, even for Simon. "Name her Amanda," she said aloud. "It means 'beloved.'"

He smiled, but his right eyebrow crept up. "Indeed," he said gravely. "That is logical." But the brown eyes were sparkling.

Sarah laughed, thinking back to the thin, self-deprecating, failed-Vulcan child he had been the day he had been brought into the emergency room with a group of other children who had been in an accident. He had tried to heal his own burns, but had not been able to maintain the trance. "Simon," she said affectionately, "how you have grown. Do you remember the day you tried to trance downstairs in the E.R.?"

"Very well. It was...'not one of my better days.'" Earth-raised or not, he had, she noticed, the same wry tendency to put silent quotation marks around human expressions that Spock had. But then the dark eyes narrowed. "There was a man with you there. A human, in Starfleet command gold. He was...good to me." He said the words with the same simplicity of feeling that she had heard in his voice when he called his son "my little boy." "You knew him, I think."

In memory, Sarah saw Jim Kirk bending over the child on the litter, saying urgently, "You'll learn. Don't give up. You're too hard on yourself." All those years ago.

"I thought I did." She sighed. "That was Admiral Kirk, Simon."

After a thoughtful moment, he said, "Of course it was." Then he surprised her completely by smiling again. "He's a winner, that one. I wouldn't worry too much about him if I were you." His voice was Vulcan-grave, but the Irish inflection was unmistakable, and Sarah laughed.

"What would your grandfather say if he could hear you?"

"Fortunately for both of us," Simon said, deadpan now, formal, flat, insufferable, "he cannot. Nor is it logical to speculate in the absence of--" Sarah was pressing her hand against her mouth, torn between irreverent delight and a twinge of the guilt that Simon was obviously far from feeling. "Forgive me, Doctor," he said in his normal tone, rising and moving toward the door. "I've taken up too much of your time."

"I wouldn't have missed this for the world." Sarah activated the message collector on her vidphone. "Just give me a second and I'll see you down to the--"

At that moment, Jill burst into the room. She did not see Simon, who had already moved to stand beside the door, awaiting Sarah's exit. She was breathless, flushed, and had apparently been running even though the midmorning sun was scorching. All gold, Sarah thought, cherishing the sight. The sleeveless shift was her favorite. Hair tumbling down her back, skin already tanned by the Vulcan sun, even her eyes were golden with joy.

"Mother! I was right--they have a leader! It's the one I call Samson--you know, the one I told you about with the dark mane and the--" Realizing that she and her mother were not alone in the room, she stopped and turned, the soft golden skirt swirling and rippling around her bare legs.

She stood still, her back to her mother, looking at Simon as he looked back at her, also absolutely still. Sarah had shaded the windows to shield out the sun, and the varitint wash turned the room to sepia. The red-gold furnishings that T'Loreth had selected so long ago, Simon's uniform and even his skin--and Jill, standing still in the center of the room--were washed with sepia. What does he see? Sarah asked herself. A man looking at Jill would not see a mother's golden vision wrapped in hope and memory, but another one altogether.

Simon smiled then--a smile that curved his lips and spread to his eyes, and Sarah remembered Kathleen saying long ago, "They're all kind of special, you know?" He inclined his head as though acknowledging an introduction, let his gaze linger on Jill's a moment longer, turned and left the office. It was only after he was gone that Sarah realized that none of them had said a word since Jill stopped speaking.

Still sitting at her desk, Sarah leaned sideways, craning her head around to try to see her daughter's face. "Jill?"

"Who was that?" Jill whispered.

"He used to be part of one of T'Loreth's pilot groups. He still comes back to see us when he's on Vulcan."

Jill turned, skirt swirling, hands clasped behind her now. Bouncing a little on the balls of her feet, she walked to the chair in front of Sarah's desk, sat down and leaned back, her arms lying easily along the arms of the chair. Her expression was meditative, but her color was a little higher than it had been before.

"He's not a full Vulcan, is he."

"No. How did you know that?"

Still leaning back in the chair, completely relaxed, Jill crossed one leg over the other and swung her foot, tapping it lightly against the front of the desk. She was smiling a little now, and her golden eyes looked at her mother and past her, at something only Jill could see.

"Is he married?" she asked.

  
"I haven't heard anybody say 'gave me the shivers' since I left Earth," Amanda said, amused. "In fact, not since my mother died."

"How about, 'I didn't know whether to laugh or cry'?" Sarah asked.

"That too." Amanda studied her over a vase of lilacs, fresh from the greenhouse at the foot of the garden, that she had been arranging when Sarah came in. The entire wing smelled of Earth and spring. It was going to be a lovely party, Sarah was sure. But she had difficulty thinking about the party. "Do you think they were in telepathic contact?" Amanda continued.

"I don't know. I don't think so. It was...something else. Jill is empathic too. But...I don't know what it was. It was just there."

Amanda nodded, and then leaned over to smell the lilacs. "How old is his little boy?"

"Seven."

"And the baby is what--three months old?"

"About that, yes."

"Well," said Amanda, "that should be just about right." She looked up then, and her blue eyes were sparkling.

"Amanda!" To her own consternation, Sarah realized that she was both blushing and grinning. "My God--he's way too old for her. He must be almost thirty!"

Amanda threw back her head and laughed. In all the years they had known one another, Sarah had never heard her laugh with such utter delight. The sight and sound of it were so infectious that Sarah could not help joining her, even though she was still blushing. They were still laughing when they realized they were not alone.

In the living room doorway stood five fascinated, black-haired Vulcan children, age ten to twelve. One of them was T'Ara, and another was Sember. Behind them were seven more of the same. Both sexes were represented in equal proportion.

"Oh--T'Ara." Sarah cleared her throat, wiped her eyes, and smoothed out as much of her smile as she could. "Ah--who are all these--" She stopped, staring, her mouth half open.

"This evening is the initial round of the second session of our chess tournament," T'Ara reminded her. "Do you not recall that, Mother?"

"Oh...my...God," was all that her mother could manage to say.

"And where," Amanda asked from the vicinity of the lilacs, "will this second session of your chess tournament take place?"

"Here," T'Ara said proudly. "In the garden."

"Amanda, I forgot--" Sarah began. But she never finished.

"Well, I think that's a wonderful idea," said Amanda. "Your parents and I will be having guests, T'Ara, but I don't think that should cause a problem. In fact, I believe some of our guests play chess. Don't they, Sarah?"

"Uh," Sarah said faintly.

"Perhaps they would like to watch," T'Ara said. Her expression was guarded, and there was a slight warning note in her voice. Eleven pairs of dark eyes silently echoed the warning.

"I'm sure they won't disturb you, dear," her grandmother assured her. "But...I'd hoped that you'd take care of Shevek until he goes to bed. Would that be acceptable?"

"That is acceptable," T'Ara answered without hesitation. "Shevek may watch us if he wishes to do so." Around and behind her, eleven sleek black heads nodded unanimous agreement.

  
The crew of the _Bounty_ arrived at the gate to the courtyard shortly after sunset that evening, having spent a quarter of an hour discussing what party clothes would meet their hostess's expectations. The clothes they had worn when they hijacked the _Enterprise_ and left _Excelsior_ behind had been freshed and stored aboard the _Bounty_ , and were therefore easily accessible. Having spent three months in nondescript Vulcan tunics and trousers, they all felt reluctant to attend a party in recycled work clothes. But it was early spring now, August-drought weather on Earth. Sulu's wry "Peter Pan would choke" had been the deciding factor, for they had already decided that whatever the decision was, it would be unanimous. And so they all wore their loose trousers and sleeveless tunics, and felt much like nameless outcasts on sufferance as they climbed the garden steps and moved toward the gate.

"Why the hell would anybody want to run up these things?" McCoy muttered, puffing. And then they all stopped dead, staring at the floor show.

Six identical triboards had been set up around the fountain, precisely equidistant from one another. At each of them sat two diminutive, unperspiring Vulcans, six males and six females judging by the length of their hair; there was no other way to tell, since they were all dressed exactly alike.

An air of supreme contentment pervaded the courtyard; none of the children was speaking at the moment, and they did not look up when the visitors moved into the area. Yet it seemed to Kirk that it had been a long, long time since he and the others had been in such a happy place as this. It was like.... He looked over at Scotty, who was standing with his hands behind his back now, a bemused grin on his face. These kids were like Scotty alone with his engines, Kirk thought. Except that they weren't alone. The peace and contentment that radiated from these children was group-generated and totally alien; no group of humans, adult or children, could have achieved it. _They're having fun_ , Kirk thought in wonder, his own grin spreading. _One hell of a good time._

He glanced at McCoy, who was looking at him too, grinning. "Somebody knows how to plan an ice-breaker," the doctor said, and Kirk nodded, thinking _I wonder who that could be_. Whatever apprehension his companions might have felt before, they all looked as though they had already had two drinks and an hour of relaxed conversation.

An hour later, they all looked like babies with bibs.

Earlier in the afternoon, McCoy had asked Kirk, "Is this going to be Vulcan finger food or a real meal?" Knowing Amanda, Kirk had opted for the latter, but both turned out to be true. The meal consisted of something like cabbage rolls, something like fruit salad, and something like nut bread, with something like sparkling water in the Vulcan equivalent of a punch bowl, which looked something like the bottom half of a gigantic fresh pineapple. The nut bread was steaming hot, the fruit ice cold, the cabbage rolls--four times the size of the Terran counterpart--dripped something dark and warm and sticky, and tasted even better than they smelled. No utensils were provided. But the logical solution to the anticipated dilemma consisted of napkins the size of a squared bath towel, thick enough to squeeze but easily tied around the neck. Kirk noticed that the Sarah, Spock, and Amanda (and even Jill and Saavik, who showed up halfway through the meal, both of them breathless and flushed with discoveries) had somehow mastered the enviable technique of keeping cabbage roll juice from running down their chins. The crew of the _Bounty_ was not similarly experienced. But greasy chins aside, no one's napkin escaped unscathed.

For reasons that were not explained and presumably were classified, Sarek had left for Earth several days before. Kirk wished it were otherwise. Seeing the ambassador in a Vulcan bib would have been an unforgettable experience.

Here they sat, Kirk thought, all dressed alike, all bibbed alike, and so much closer in spirit than they would have been if they had planned and primped to impress one another. A new reason for the unisex leisurewear occurred to him as the conversation moved from Amanda's work with Vulcan and Terran music to the ingredients of the food, to the children's chess tournament, to the coming trial on Earth--none of which was, at the moment, any more threatening than any other subject. It was so much more interesting to rejoice in differences if those differences came from within rather than from without. It was the uniform concept turned around and inside out; here there was no rank. Even Spock looked the same in a messy bib as any other Vulcan, as any human would. Kirk went on eating and pondering, not participating much in the conversation, simply enjoying himself. Once he looked over at Spock, who was looking at him just then. Spock raised one eyebrow, and his lips curved a little. Kirk grinned back at him and went on eating and talking and listening.

"I think that punch was spiked," McCoy confided as they drifted out into the court where the children were still playing chess, half of them with greasy napkins forgotten around their necks. "I am feeling no pain. But is there anyplace cool around here? I ate too damn much, and I wouldn't mind cooling off a little." Like all of the humans, he wore a mustache of sweat along his upper lip.

"Try the greenhouse." Kirk pointed toward the gate, and then toward the ground to indicate "down the hill." "The last couple years Amanda's fixed it up like a real Terran garden. There's a skylight on top and grass under your feet. Take your sandals off. Only way to appreciate it."

"Real grass?" McCoy asked, his blue eyes lighting at the thought. The others, who were nearby, all turned with similarly eager expressions.

"Believe it." Kirk gestured with his thumb. "Go on. I'll join you in a little while. I want to talk to Sarah about something."

No one was hosting them, he noted with interest. Once the meal was over, Sarah and Amanda had adjourned to their usual evening enjoyment of the relative coolness of the garden court, assuring their guests that they could join them or not as they chose. Spock wandered among the chess players, hands clasped behind his back, silent and unobtrusive and obviously fascinated. Infinite diversity in infinite combination. Shevek scooted after his father until he spotted the admiral, then changed course, closing in fast. Kirk picked him up and tossed him in the air, and Shevek squealed with delight. None of the chess players appeared to notice, but Kirk had already seen T'Ara glance up two or three times when the baby was crawling around. She obviously had him within sensor range at all times.

Making no sound, Kirk knelt on one knee behind her, balancing the baby on his thigh. Shev immediately quieted, bouncing a little, his black eyes on the triboard as though he understood what he saw there, his thumb in his mouth. Taking advantage of the momentary respite, Kirk scouted the game and realized that he had arrived at a crucial point in the contest.

T'Ara and her female partner were on the verge of being stalemated. There was only one other possibility, and he saw it as soon as he looked over T'Ara's shoulder--an unconventional move that would win the game for her in two more moves. Even Spock would probably not have seen it. But neither would Spock have boxed himself into a stalemate with the dogged, unimaginative logic that T'Ara's partner had obviously been the victim of, leaving herself vulnerable as only a Vulcan child playing chess with a human could possibly do. But T'Ara wasn't--

Even as he thought her name, she made the move that James Kirk would have made. He knew that there had been no telepathic contact. She was fully concentrated on the game and unaware of his presence.

The Vulcan girl stared at the triboard in expressionless disbelief. Logic-bound though she was, she saw immediately what had happened to her, and her rising eyebrows made Kirk press his lips together to keep from laughing out loud.

Without conscious intent, he turned his head and looked up, finding Spock standing a little behind him as Kirk had somehow known he would be. Spock did not raise an eyebrow or even smile, and yet in his eyes and in his mind, he was smiling.

  
After the triumphant T'Ara had relieved him of his infant nemesis and carried Shevek off to bed, Kirk wandered over to where Sarah was sitting, strumming her guitar. When she looked up, he mouthed, _Let's talk._ Puzzled, she nevertheless nodded, put the guitar aside, and walked with him through the gate. As they moved down the steps, he asked, "Do you think Jill belongs in Starfleet?"

"B-belongs?" Her obvious incredulity was a comfort to him, but it was not enough.

"Have you ever seen her with a group of animals?"

"A group? No, I don't think I ever have."

"Do you know that she can sense a predator's presence a kilometer away?"

"No." Sarah frowned. "I didn't know that."

"What happened with the alien, Sarah? The big alien on Tara, when she wasn't four years old yet. She remembers that you chased it away from her, but that's all she remembers. Was there more to it than that?

She stopped walking and stared at him, her face pale in the starlight. "She almost lost her mind. Literally. The alien's mind was taking over. I pulled her away in time, but--" Horror crept into her eyes. "Wasn't I in time?" she whispered.

"Look at her. Listen to her. Just do that and tell me you weren't in time."

She relaxed, her gaze still searching his. "But?"

"She takes it for granted." He still could hardly believe it. "It's like this...this gift is nothing special, just something that everybody has." They continued on down the steps, their footfalls echoing in the fragrant, starlit stillness all around them. "She's not asking who she is yet, and she should be doing that by now. She takes it all for granted, including Starfleet."

"Wouldn't Starfleet be the best place for her with this--gift she has?"

"She could be exploited," he said, frowning, and was startled when Sarah laughed.

"Jill?" She continued to laugh softly as he relaxed and smiled too. "Look at her," she mimicked. "Listen to her."

"All right. All right." This was not a night for worrying, he realized. Maybe somebody had spiked the punch after all. "But tell me about the alien. You were in deep rapport with her, deeper than Jill was?" Sarah nodded. "Was she intelligent?"

"Spock said a three-year-old child, but...I think more like an ape."

"Sub-humanoid?" She nodded again. "Well, that might have something to do with--"

As though on cue, Jill and Saavik emerged below them, having walked down the hill along the outside of the house. They were deep in conversation, unaware that they were being observed as they moved toward the path that Saavik would take back to Con Tower. Kirk watched his daughter, convinced for now, at least, that she would find her own way to wherever she was going. Then he watched Saavik and thought private thoughts--safe thoughts, because he had long ago decided that there were too many things against their ever being more than thoughts...and realized that Sarah was watching him think them.

They stared at each other for a moment, and then Sarah silently cracked up, blushing as furiously as he was, pressing her hands to her mouth. He was laughing too, but he raised his finger and pointed at her, trying to get his breath.

"You--you quit that!"

"I _can't_ read your mind! Jim, I swear to God--"

They were both laughing now. He took her hands in his, and she hid her face against his shoulder until they were through laughing and could look at one another again. Then he said, "You've changed."

"We all have."

"I mean since that day in the bubble when McCoy told us both what we sounded like."

"Yes, I have."

"Spock might be back here sooner than you think. I've really done it this time."

Her hands tightened on his, and McCoy's words came to her mind: _You've had time to become friends._

"I hope not," she said, and neither of them doubted that she meant it.

  
The inside of the greenhouse was in darkness except for the faint illumination coming in through the skylight. Uhura sat cross-legged on the grass, braiding marigolds into a coronet in her lap, singing one of her soft lilting songs. The rest of them were stretched out full length with their heads pillowed on their hands, except for Sulu, who had propped himself up against a small tree. All had taken their sandals off, and Chekov and McCoy were chewing on grass blades.

Kirk had opened and closed the door silently and removed his sandals before he rounded the lilac bushes and came across the grass. But Sulu looked up and smiled.

"Admiral on the bridge," he said softly. Nobody moved, much less got up, much less stood at attention. But it was all there just the same.

"Now," McCoy said a little huskily, "he's going to say, 'As you were.'"

"I wish I could." Kirk squatted down near Sulu and blinked until he could see better. "I want all of you to do something for me." Quiet, waiting silence. When had it ever been otherwise? "I want you to think about alternatives. No one has to go back to Earth just because I'm going. That was my decision. But I'm not going to make yours for you. Not this time."

After another moment of silence, Scotty said, "It's that strange, but I cudda sworn somebody said something."

"Funny," Sulu agreed immediately, making a great show of scratching his head. "But I had the same feeling, Scotty. Didn't think there was anybody else here, did you?"

"Maybe dat Wulcan punch _vas_ spiked," Chekov chimed in without missing a beat, and Uhura added, "Air's awful thin too. We could be hallucinating." When Kirk looked up, she threw a marigold at him and grinned.

It landed at his feet, and he picked it up and studied it for a moment before he looked up and said, "Bones?"

"The air's the air, Jim. Besides--" McCoy got up, stretching. "I'm a doctor, not a--" He paused, frowning. Chekov snickered. Uhura giggled and threw another marigold, this time at the doctor. "Just a damn minute now," McCoy said grumpily. "I'll think of something."

But because they were all laughing at him, he never told them what it was. At least that was the reason he gave.

  
After they had all accepted Amanda's gift of self, and after she had told them all how welcome they were and waved them down the hill, Sember was still in the garden, conferring with T'Ara. I-Chaya, who had prowled the edge of the Forge while his home was infested with humans, returned and provided a warm body and an interested audience as the two children reclined against him, apparently recapitulating the first round of the second session of their chess tournament.

Sarah and Amanda sat in their usual places, enjoying the first coolness of the night. Spock, who had just returned from walking his friends down the hill, stood halfway between the women and I-Chaya, eyeing the two children--not with total approval, Sarah suspected. In memory, she heard Amanda, here in the garden several months ago, quoting her father nostalgically: _Doesn't he ever go home?_

"Is it legitimate to infer," Spock inquired, "that he occasionally honors his parents with his presence?"

Sarah and Amanda turned their heads to look at one another. Finally Sarah said, "Occasionally." Her voice was not quite steady, and Amanda's mouth was twitching.

"Fascinating." Spock half turned toward them, one eyebrow up, hands still clasped behind his back. "One would have assumed otherwise."

"In about three seconds," Amanda whispered, "I'm going to wipe out every point I ever made." She rose, the picture of the decorous Vulcan wife. "Good night, my dears." And she went into the house a little more quickly than she usually did.

Spock watched her go, smiling a little, and it came to Sarah that he had been close enough to hear Amanda's whisper, if not to understand the cause of her levity.

Sarah got up and went to him, linking her hands behind his neck as he put his arms around her waist.

"Is Mother in some distress?" But he knew. He knew.

"Some. She'll get over it."

"I love you," he said softly.

"Non sequitur," she whispered back.

"No." He shook his head. "It isn't." As they slipped into deep rapport, she saw what he saw and would take away with him--Sarah sparkling with suppressed laughter, Sarah beautiful, Sarah loving and loved.

The following evening, the last before they began their voyage home, Kirk and Spock stayed late, checking out the ship together. Kirk learned what he had previously suspected--that Spock knew the _Bounty_ better than he did. To him, this ship was still Kruge's ship, and he often fancied that he could still smell Klingons in the engine room. He felt no bloodbond, no symbiotic relationship with this former bird of prey. His ship, the lady of all his dreams and aspirations, was dead, and although he spent many long hours learning this one, it was rote knowledge only, committed to memory but not to heart. Spock, on the other hand, had never wanted a ship of his own, and was much more task-oriented than Kirk was. The _Bounty_ had also been a particular challenge in his life, the first ship he had learned since his refusion. By the time they finished and stepped outside, Kirk was convinced that he not only had his friend at his side, but his first officer as well.

It was mid-evening, and the heat of the day had flown with the setting sun. Overhead, the stars shone in what were now, after three months, familiar patterns. The Na-Shoma had come and gone, and the dry time had come upon this hemisphere. The desert night air was clear and sharp, and Kirk considered asking Spock to walk with him for a while. He was not ready for sleep. But this was Spock's last night at home.

"Have you worked out today?" Spock asked.

"No." Kirk sighed. "Morrow wanted to talk to me, and the time was wrong. I was up at the crack of dawn, and after that...." He shrugged.

"We will work out together, then," Spock said. Kirk gave him an unbelieving look. "Fifteen minutes, Jim. That amount of time will be of no consequence to my family, and it will make considerable difference in the way you sleep tonight."

The practice workouts had begun as training for Spock, whose coordination and timing had not at first equaled what they had been before the regeneration of his body on Genesis. They had developed what was almost a game. Spock's memory too was involved as Kirk would snap out questions about hand-to-hand encounters Spock had had in the past. At first, he had been cautious, going into lengthy reminiscences, quests for conscious recall that had confused the newly rejoined Spock more than they had jogged his spotty memory. And so Kirk had learned to give no warning, but simply to trigger unconscious recall without preamble. That technique had been so successful that he had used it less and less in recent days. Now, as their session ended, he asked suddenly, "How did we get Van Gelder when he was on the bridge?"

Spock immediately moved to his left, and they closed in on an imaginary Van Gelder as they had in reality so many years ago--in perfect sync, knowing the outcome as they knew one another. And there on the Vulcan sand, in the shadow of the predator ship, Kirk felt a surge of confidence that he had not felt since he had opened his communicator in the Genesis cave and snapped, "It's two hours. Are you ready?" Knowing what the answer would be. Knowing....

Spock feigned the final neckpinch on the imaginary Van Gelder, looked up, and smiled. And Kirk thought _Welcome home_ , and grasped Spock's arms as Spock grasped his.

"Welcome aboard, Mr. Spock," he said, and grinned.

Spock answered immediately, "Thank you, Captain."

It did not occur to either of them to correct him.  


> _'Tis a gift to be simple, 'tis a gift to be free,_  
>  _'Tis a gift to come down where we ought to be._  
>  _And when we are in that place just right,_  
>  _We'll be in the valley of love and delight._
> 
> _When true simplicity is gained,_  
>  _To bow and to bend we will not be ashamed --_  
>  _To turn, to turn, 'twill be our delight,_  
>  _'Till by turning, turning, we come 'round right._
> 
>   
>  _\-- An old Terran folk song_


End file.
